Forged by Pain
by Hostiel
Summary: Hydra sought to turn a child into a weapon, to use his own pain to forge him into an unstoppable force, capable of carrying out whatever their will might be. Unfortunately for them, an uncontrolled weapon will destroy its creator just as easily as it would any other, and Harry Potter is not willing to let himself be controlled.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The air sang as a blade of wind tore through it, and a man's head hit the floor with a dull thump. A moment later, his body followed.

A boy stared upon the scene with a blank face, yet shaky hands and green eyes glistening with tears betrayed his true emotions. No manner of training, even from _them,_ had prepared him for the horror of taking a life in cold blood for the first time, even if his target was already condemned to die.

He had practised the technique a thousand times. Shaping the power that laid dormant within him became easier every day, yet to see it lash into _flesh_ instead of _stone_ , to hear it end a man's life, to feel blood – so _warm_ – spray against his face...there were no words to describe it.

A hand found his shoulder in a way that the blond man to which it belonged must have thought reassuring, but it was anything but. As he glanced up, the boy could see straight through the well-practised smile that didn't quite reach the man's icy blue eyes. He could sense the cold calculation that laid behind a demeanour that was just a little _too_ friendly.

"Excellent job, Harry," the man said. "I predict that by the time you turn nine, you will be a fine operative indeed. And by the time you reach adulthood, you will be ready to lead the world into a new era."

Harry only nodded, still too stunned by what he had just done to listen. It was a few seconds later when he remembered what was expected of him. "Hail Hydra," he said softly, and the man, his _handler,_ repeated after him without missing a beat.

Harry heard footsteps trail from the room, and stood to follow, sparing a single glance back at the decapitated corpse behind him, its crimson blood a sharp contrast to the white floor. Hydra's motto reverberated through his head: _cut off one head, and two more shall take its place._ Apparently, that didn't apply to traitors.

* * *

Panic. A child's cry of pain. A face flushing red, its lips twisting up into a furious snarl. A bellowing voice, the anger held within practically tangible. A fist, barreling towards him.

Pain, quick and burning hot. Something foreign rising within his gut. Icy coolness spreading through his body. A scream of rage, effort and agony ripping its way from his throat.

And then there was blood. So much blood. Harry stared into glassy eyes, and then was suddenly jerked from the scene.

For a moment, he panicked, finding himself suddenly surrounded by blackness. He then came to the realisation of where he was and sat up in his bed, drawing in a shaky breath.

It always ended there, with him staring down upon his uncle's still-warm body. He wasn't quite sure if it qualified as a nightmare. Sure, it had been terrifying, but it also marked the moment when he had finally stood up for himself, when he had finally had the power to take revenge on the relatives that had tormented him.

It had been the first time he had tasted the almost addictive exhilaration that the power that dwelled within him brought each time he called upon it. On the other hand, it had been the first time he had taken a life, even if it had been in self-defence, and it had been a traumatising experience indeed.

Nonetheless, the sin he had committed today would make a far more appropriate nightmare. Killing in cold blood with cool efficiency was far different from accidentally ending a man he hated in a storm of pain and rage.

At a stretch, the events of the day might also be classified as self-defence. He had disobeyed Hydra before, and their wrath had not been a pleasant thing. The thin scars that lined his back were testaments to that.

Perhaps killing Vernon had been a nightmare, for it had been that event that had landed him in Hydra's clutches. If he had not killed him, he would still be in his cupboard. It was a sad and horrible existence, but still preferable to his current one - or maybe not.

Horrid might Hydra be, but if they were good at anything, it was ruthlessly training their agents. As Agent Smith, his handler, had said, by the time he was nine, in less than a year's time, he would be a fine operative – a fine _assassin._ Whilst he didn't care for Hydra's talk of him being the one to lead them, he knew he would have the potential to, and therefore the potential to do almost anything he wanted.

Hydra would to teach him to fight, to shoot, to plan, to lead, and help him learn how to wield the power within him. They would forge him into a weapon, but unfortunately for them, a weapon would strike down its creator as quickly as it would an enemy.

That said, Harry didn't particularly want to be a weapon, and especially if it involved training as horrid as his, so if the chance to escape arose, he would take it in the blink of an eye. Hydra had taught him how to hide from SHIELD, the organization who opposed them, and he didn't doubt that the tactics would also work on them.

But for now, there was nothing he could do but go back to sleep. So sleep he did.

* * *

Harry awoke at exactly 5:30am without the aid of an alarm clock. After spending time with Hydra, he had long since learned the consequences for not doing so, and they were anything but nice.

With a flex of his mind, he directed a force towards where his light switch was. Immediately, a light, annoyingly bright, turned on. By this point, Harry was fairly sure that he could carry out his routine in the dark without the aid of his powers, but it was impossible to tell at what point Hydra would see it prudent to spring a test upon him, so to be careful was to be safe.

Pulling back the thin grey sheets, he rolled from his bed. The stone floor was cool under his feet, and at one time, he might've shivered. That time, however, had long since passed, and the cold of the underground facility no longer bothered him.

He moved over to the cupboard and opened it. A set of impeccably tailored uniforms faced him. Most were black but for a patch over the heart, bearing Hydra's symbol: a red skull with eight tentacles protruding from it. At the end was a dress uniform, also black, but in the style of a suit rather than the combat-orientated design of the others, and with Hydra's logo upon an armband on the left arm, rather than on the breast.

Harry picked out one of the ordinary ones and stripped from his bed wear, putting on a new uniform. Once dressed, he moved over to the mirror, glancing over himself. The difference between him now, and him from before he had joined Hydra was subtle, but still noticeable. For one, his hair was now straight, rather than the bird's nest it had once been. He was more muscled, but that would have been hard to see with his clothes on. What wasn't hard to see, however, was the new way in which he held himself.

When he had been with the Dursleys, his relatives, he had been meek and submissive. At Hydra, while he was expected to follow orders, that was not acceptable. If he was not confident in himself, he was already condemned to failure, and failure would be punished.

He had been forced to gain confidence, and it was now imbued in his very being. He knew he was better than most. Even before he had discovered his ability, he had been smarter than almost everyone he had ever met. With his power, however, he wasn't only more intelligent, he was stronger. Some might have called him arrogant, but if arrogance was essential to his survival, then so be it.

With a mock salute, he turned and walked from the room, ready as he ever would be to begin his morning training.

* * *

"Faster!" the man shouted. Harry didn't know his name. It was part of Hydra's "Good Cop, Bad Cop" routine. They wanted him to trust Agent Smith, so he could not be the one to force him beyond his limits. He couldn't be the one to brutally punish him whenever he failed.

"Faster!" came the man's voice again, and Harry slightly accelerated his pace, gasping for breath through aching lungs. Pain rose racked his chest, but he didn't stop - he _couldn't_ stop. If he did, the pain would be far worse, and it most certainly wouldn't be from exertion.

It was during moments like this he contemplated escape. Why should he have to suffer under the command of these men when he had powers far beyond them? Why did he allow them to even lay a hand upon him when he had the ability to rob them of their head with a few seconds of concentration? These questions only ever lasted a moment, for the answer was already clear: he wanted to survive.

He might've been strong enough to kill one or two, perhaps five if they were unarmed, but they weren't, and there were many more than five of them. _Cut off one head, and another shall take its place._ No matter how many he defeated, there would always be more, and a bullet through the head would end him as readily as it would an ordinary human.

A jolt of white hot electricity shooting through his body from the instrument upon his chest startled him from his thoughts, and he clenched his eyes in pain. The urge to give up weighed heavily upon his mind, but he cast it away. The fate that awaited him if he gave in to the urge would be ten times as bad as this.

It seemed like an eternity before he was given permission to stop, and even then the unnamed Hydra agent sneered and marched off, abandoning him to work with his shooting instructor.

He had began to fire when he heard Agent Smith's voice call his name. Clicking the safety onto his pistol, he turned, repeating Smith's greeting of "Hail Hydra."

"Harry," Smith said with false warmth. "Your first mission has been assigned."

Harry glanced around. The shooting instructor wasn't listening in, and there wasn't anyone else within hearing range; the ever-present guards were undoubtedly stationed nearby though. He wasn't exactly sure as to why he cared whether or not they were listening.

"Sir?" he asked, prompting Smith to continue.

"An assassination - nothing too difficult. It's just a test of your abilities. The higher-ups just want to see that you're capable of doing what's necessary."

Harry looked down at the pistol still held in his right hand. All Hydra personnel wore body armour, but at this range, it would be easy for him to get a headshot. Hell, he could get a bullet in each of Smith's eyes before he hit the ground. From there it would be simple to put a bullet in the shooting instructor and flee. But what of the guards? There were dozens of them, each carrying fully-automatic assault rifles. He wouldn't stand a chance, and that wasn't even taking into account the snipers that were undoubtedly dotted around.

No, he could not attack now, even with bile rising in his throat at the thought of killing whoever Hydra told him to. He would have to bide his time.

Perhaps this mission was a blessing in disguise, for it was an opportunity to leave the base for the first time he had gotten to it. It was an opportunity to escape, and he would not waste it.

 **A/N: So, here's a new fic. Tell me what you thought!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter** **2**

The sun beat down upon him as he exited the plane, and Harry reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. If Brazil was always this hot, at least it was one place he could cross off the list of possible locations for the Hydra base at which he was kept. He had been sedated for the flight, and thus had no idea how long it had taken. That didn't particularly matter, however, for if this went his way, he would never step foot in that place again.

Harry looked around the private airport they had arrived in and knew not to ask any questions; any required information would be provided to him when Agent Smith saw it fit. So ignoring the sweltering heat, he made his way down the stairs of the plane, and followed the Hydra agents towards the airport's main building.

From what he had been told of Hydra, he wasn't exactly surprised when they were able to simply walk around security without being searched, which was probably good, given the number of weapons each agent with them had on their person. In fact, the comforting weight of a pistol sat at Harry's own side, concealed under his jacket; a number of knives were also dotted about his person.

He had checked all of his weapons as well as himself for tracking devices; he didn't want Hydra to have any way to follow him when he made his escape. If they caught him, it wouldn't be good, to say the least.

Following Agent Smith, he climbed into the back of a black SUV parked outside. The other agents entered the other, less conspicuous and less protective cars, and they were soon driving towards a location Harry didn't yet know.

The car descended into an uncomfortable silence, though Agent Smith seemed perfectly content with it. His demeanour was calm, and he simply stared out of the window at the blur of colours that made up the passing scenery.

Harry, on the other hand, was constantly stopping himself from fidgeting. Nervousness brewed within him, and he hadn't quite yet decided whether it was about this being his first assassination, or it being his first chance to escape Hydra's clutches. Either way, it would be best not to let it show. Hydra did not approve of weakness, and to be nervous was to be weak.

So he joined Smith in his staring out of the window, running over the information he knew about Brazil. It was decidedly not much. He knew it was in South America, that there was quite a bit of crime, the people primarily spoke Portuguese, and, most importantly, he would stick out like a sore thumb. He hoped that the two latter were not the reason Hydra had placed him here. If they were already suspicious of him wanting to escape, it would not be good—especially if they were already taking counter-measures.

It said something about the distress within him when Harry was actually relieved for Agent Smith to wordlessly pass him a manila folder, its contents not exactly mysterious. That feeling of distress immediately returned as Harry gazed upon the folder's contents, this time accompanied by the sensation of bile rising in his throat.

A man's portrait sat in front of him. He appeared to be a Brazillian native, though no further information—not even a name—about him was supplied. Below the picture was a set of instructions, directions as to where to find him. How Harry was supposed to kill him was not said. He supposed that was only logical; this was a test, and they wanted to see what he would do.

A part of him was sickened by this, whilst another part was already analysing the situation. What would the best way to kill him? Poison? A slit throat? A knife to the spine? A bullet through the skull? His power? Before he could get any further, Harry calmed himself, drawing in a long breath and closing his eyes for a second.

Panicking would get him nowhere. He needed to follow Hydra's teachings if he sought to escape them. Cool, calm efficiency was the way to go. No emotions meant no hesitance, and hesitance would get you killed—and when at the hands of organisations at Hydra's level, worse.

Harry glanced at Smith, whose cool blue eyes bore into his own. He quickly looked away. The man, far more experienced than him, could obviously tell he was nervous. Hopefully, he would not choose to have one of his moments of false comforting. At the moment, Harry was very tense, and he felt as though anything might cause him to accidentally use his powers. That would not be good.

His emotions once again locked deep within him, he ran his eyes over the information in his hands. At nightfall, he was to be dropped off and make his way towards the hotel in which his target would be. He would get in by whatever method he desired, and kill the target, who would be on the third floor of the building in room 47.

A look out the window confirmed that the sun still hung high in the sky. He would have a while to plan his escape then. He would _need_ a while to plan his escape, and even then, his plan would most likely fall apart rapidly, seeing as he didn't know anything about the area, and his own trainers would be the ones after him.

He would have to play this smart, and that meant doing what Hydra would not expect. They would think that if he was planning on escaping, he would do it before killing his target.

If he sought to escape, he would have to do it afterwards. This man was already going to die if Hydra were after him and he was such a small threat that they had sent a novice to do it. A small comfort, perhaps, but it meant that his death wasn't unnecessary, and if Harry was forced to make it happen, it couldn't be too hard.

Any intricacies such as the specific escape route would have to be left until he actually arrived, for he had no idea what the area was like other than a basic floor plan of his target building. At this point, any further attempt at planning would only result in him doubting himself, so Harry settled back in his seat and waited.

* * *

Night was a pleasant contrast to day, mildly warm rather than boiling hot. Harry had ceased sweating like a pig, which was a great aid, seeing as it would make his hands less slippery, and therefore his prowess with most weapons better. If he slipped up and was injured—or worse—there would be no chance of escape, and he would either be dead or in Hydra's clutches once more.

Every time Harry thought of either his mission or what he would do afterwards a shiver of nervousness shot up his spine. Each time he forced it away, setting himself into a blank state, his face emotionless, and body devoid of any fidgeting. He was like this when they arrived at the drop-off point, and from the nod Agent Smith and wish of good luck gave him as he exited the car, he seemed to approve of it.

Harry allowed himself to relax slightly as the car moved away. While there were undoubtedly Hydra agents still observing him, he stood a chance at evading them. In a car, a dozen bullets would be within him before he made a move. Here, however, he might be able to dash into a side street, or something of the likes.

Breathing in a deep breath of fresh air, Harry looked downwards and let his hair fall over his green eyes. After glancing around, he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked forward into the crowds.

He was tense, and recognised that it was not the best state to be in, so once again relaxed, allowing himself to drift away into his senses of the night as he slipped into the crowd.

The sounds were entirely unfamiliar to him. He had never been in a large city before. Well, except once, but that was certainly not something he wanted to remember. For a brief moment, the sticky feeling of blood upon his skin, the sterile smell of a hospital, flashing blue lights and the blaring of sirens consumed his senses, but then he forced himself back into reality.

No, the night of Vernon's death was most certainly not something he wanted to revisit—even if it was only the aftermath. Though he didn't remember the events fully for whatever reason, those memories brought with them a sense of terror, a fear of the unknown power within him that had reduced a man to a blood, bone and shredded flesh within seconds, a fear of what might happen to Harry when the police found out what he had done.

Harry was not sure how he had expected them to find out, but him being with Hydra was a testament to the fact that he _had_ been correct about someone finding out. How they had done it, he still didn't know.

Pushing himself away from those thoughts once again, Harry once again focused on the sounds and smells around him. They were both entirely new to him, the loud music and exotic foods a stark contrast to the overly emphasised normality at the house of his relatives and the grey monotony of the Hydra base.

As he made his way towards his destination, Harry let these sensations occupy his thoughts and allowed any nervousness to be blown by a pleasantly scented breeze.

It was not long before he reached the building in which his target would be, and, once again, anxiety threatened to descend upon him. This time, it took Harry a few seconds to get his emotions under control, and he clenched his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, a defiant determination burned in them. Hydra would not allow failure in their plans, and he would not allow failure in his.

Without hesitation, Harry pushed the doors of the hotel open and pulled back his hood. Hopefully, they would think him a tourist. He glanced around the lobby as he entered. It was by no means high-end, but still considerably nicer than the Hydra base.

A security guard sat on a chair by the door, though looked half asleep and was unarmed. The only other people in the room were two women behind the counter, looking just as bored as the guard. Obviously, neither of them was the target, so they were unimportant, but perhaps they could help….

As Harry approached the counter, he allowed his eyes to tear slightly and uncertainness to slip into his demeanour. It was a replica of how he had acted when he was at the Dursleys', though hopefully, without his reputation as a "troublemaker" preceding him, it would be able to manipulate people.

"English?" he hesitantly asked. Both women shook their heads. This was evidently not the kind of place that often received foreigners. With a mental swear, Harry changed his plan slightly.

Putting his head in his hands, he began to cry, babbling out a few words that he hoped would roughly translate. At this, the two women began speaking rapidly in what might've been any language, but Harry was fairly sure was Portuguese. After a few moments of argument, one of them came around the counter and pulled him into an awkward side-hug.

Harry wiped his crocodile tears away, and looked at the object atop the counter, his eyes lighting up as he spotted a pen. He grabbed at it, pulling away from the women to scribble the number 44 upon a piece of loose paper. He waved it at her frantically, sobbing about his family, and after a few seconds conversing with her friend, she grabbed his hand and led him over to the stairs.

Relief washed over him, but he didn't let it show. He hadn't been sure that this plan would work, but he was even less faithful in his ability to climb up the side of the building without falling to his death.

He allowed the woman the lead him up to the third floor, and when she stopped outside room 44, he struck. Leaping up, he covered her mouth, and jammed a needle into her neck. Any strength advantage she might've had was immediately negated as the powerful sedative entered her bloodstream, making her go limp within seconds and unconscious a moment later.

Luckily, she was quite light, and Harry found himself capable of dragging her into a supplies closet. She would be out for a while, so it was of no concern he could not lock the door.

Glancing over the corridor to ensure no one was watching, he moved over to room 47 and extracted a set of lock picking tools from his pocket. He made quick work of the lock, and silently slipped into the room.

Like the hotel's lobby, it was not fancily clad. It was relatively small, with a door on Harry's right probably leading to a bathroom, judging by the sound of water moving through the pipes. An ancient-looking television sat upon a stand that looked primed to collapse at the next gust of air to blow through the open window, which was framed by burgundy curtains which danced with the breeze.

What lay in the centre of the room, however, was what Harry had come here for: a bed with a distinctly human shape under the covers.

Reaching into his already unzipped hoodie, Harry pulled out a pistol. It was sleek, black, and deadly, no light reflecting off of it. Harry had disassembled and assembled it a hundred times, and fired it a thousand times more. From this range, there was no way he could miss. From his pocket, he pulled a suppressor and screwed it onto the barrel.

As he settled into his firing stance, aligning the sights of the gun with his eye, something crunched loudly underfoot. Harry was startled from his calmness, and in the same moment, the figure on the bed sat up. He looked around frantically, his eyes widening as he laid eyes upon Harry. After a moment, he groped for his bedside table, but Harry said, "Don't," with a calmness that told nothing of the emotions within him, and the target was still.

"Please," the target spoke in a heavy accent, his tone terrified. "They say SHIELD no kill if I to help."

Harry was certainly not a member of SHIELD, and didn't particularly want to kill this man. It was because of this, he hesitated, and the man must've seen that hesitation, because his hands were once again whipping for the bedside table.

The pistol in Harry's hands spat once, and then again. The suppressor in combination with the subsonic ammo did its job, reducing the gun's thunder-like roars to sharp cracks.

Both bullets found their target, the first in the man's heart and the second in his head as recoil carried the barrel upwards.

Blood sprayed the wall, and the target fell back into his bed. There was no question about whether or not he was dead.

Harry almost robotically clicked on the safety, turning and making his way from the room. He pulled a phone from his pocket and clicked the call button twice, signalling that the deed was done. And now to put the second part of his plan to action. He rapidly moved down the hotel's stairs, moving out into the streets out of a bathroom window.

After walking towards the extraction point for a few minutes, Harry slipped the phone into someone's pocket and turned around, darting through back alleys as fast as he possibly could to get away from the tracking device. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and fear through his heart. That fear succumbed as he moved further and further away without incident, giving way to panic and worry.

Where did he go from here? Deep down, he hadn't expected to get this far. He hadn't planned this at all. He didn't speak Portuguese, and wasn't even aware of Brazil's exact location, let alone which city he was in! How was he supposed to—

Agent Smith stepped smoothly from the shadows of an alleyway, a suppressed pistol pointed towards Harry. Two agents moved with him, with submachine guns instead of pistols.

Cold steel pressed itself against the back of Harry's head, and he froze.

"Harry, Harry," said Agent Smith. "Attempting escape on your first mission? Amateur. Predictable _. Childish_." He chuckled. "You have failed, Harry, and failure will be punished."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Cold water drenched Harry, immediately awakening him - if the state he had been in could be counted as sleep, that was. He didn't know how long he had been in this room - this _cell_ \- but it had been at least two days, and Hydra had apparently decided that allowing him to sleep would be far too lenient. Perhaps that was because the lack of sleep greatly hindered his concentration, though. As a Hydra agent had discovered, if Harry was given a few seconds to focus, the consequences could be severe.

All Harry had needed to do was shatter a glass to rob the agent of a few fingers on his right hand. After that, they had stopped bringing him water, except in the form of buckets full of ice, of course. It had been worth it, but Harry still wished that he had managed to kill the man.

He attempted to reach down into himself and force his power to manifest, but it was just out of his reach. Sleep deprivation, thirst and starvation tended to stop one focusing. That effect was only multiplied when they were tied to a chair, soaked to the bone, and occasionally electrocuted. Perhaps if he had still been able to use his power with surges of emotion, like he had done with Vernon Dursley, he might've been able to do something, but no. He had honed his power and brought it more under his control, and that had rended him near incapable of using it instinctively.

So as Agent Smith lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the metal table, Harry could do nothing but glare at him. Smith only smiled sadly.

"I'm disappointed in you, Harry," he said. "We rescued you. We trained you. We made you better than you would ever have been otherwise. Why would you run away? We trusted you, and I still trust you to make the correct choice."

Harry glanced at the room around him. It was a concrete cube with a security camera in each corner and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A few slits high up in the wall acted as vents, and the room slightly tilted towards one corner where a few tiny holes in the floor marked a drain.

He looked to the gun upon Smith's hip, the man's hand casually resting upon it.

He switched his gaze to Smith's face. His expression was gentle and slightly sad, but when Harry looked into his eyes, he could see - _sense_ \- the emotions - or lack of them - within. As with most things Hydra had told him, it was a lie, and an obvious one at that. They did not trust him to do anything, and in the end, he would make the "correct" choice whether he wanted to or not, for otherwise they would torture him.

He could've been defiant, but what would that gain him other than a few extra scars and an extended period with nothing but these four grey walls to stare upon? As much as he might loathe it, Harry knew that his best option would be to simply give up.

"I'm sorry," he said, his tone filled with false sadness. "I was just afraid. I didn't plan it or anything, killing the man just…. I'm not sure how to describe it, but _please_ take me back! I don't want to go back to the Dursleys!" It was a poor performance, but it would hopefully work.

For a moment, Smith looked satisfied, but then his expression once again turned to one of mourning. "I'm _sure_ you are telling the truth, but nonetheless, you must be punished for your disobedience."

Harry's eyes widened, and terror descended upon him as Smith unholstered his gun. He feebly attempted to call up his power, but it was no use.

The pistol roared once, a noise like thunder echoing through the room, but Harry paid no attention to it. Rather he looked down at the crimson spreading across his once white shirt.

For a few seconds, a cold numbness spread across him as he struggled to come to the realisation of what had just happened.

And then came the pain. Rolling waves of fiery agony crashed against his mind, and a scream ripped its way from his throat. The sound of a door slamming shut registered on the edge of his awareness as he writhed in pain, and he found his chair toppling over sideways.

Pain once again racked his body as he landed on his bad side, and unconsciousness rushed up to envelop him in response to his head rebounding off the floor. An electric shock drove it away, and the agony remained.

Perhaps the pain had startled him into clarity, or perhaps it was some kind of survival instinct, but this time, as Harry called up his power, it answered. His willpower combined with his pain to forge a wall of force, and it slammed forward, towards the door.

The steel buckled under the weight, and with the next attack it was sent off of its hinges.

Fueled by determination, Harry shattered the chains binding him to the chair and climbed to his feet, ignoring the horrid throbbing emanating from his bullet wound.

Two men carrying assault rifles came through the door, but Harry had already been preparing his next attack for a few seconds, and another wave of force slammed into them before they could act. Each was sent crashing back into the corridor with sickening crunches, and Harry staggered after them. If they were dead, they deserved it. He would see to it that a few more of the guards got their comeuppance before he escaped.

A shock of electricity shot through Harry, emanating from the handcuffs upon his wrist, but it was not designed to knock him unconscious, only cause pain. If anything, it fueled him more, and he embraced the pain, using it to send a blade of power through the link of the cuffs, destroying them.

Harry stumbled into the featureless corridor, picking a direction and moving down it. He had now began to pay attention to his other senses, and took a morbid satisfaction in the knowledge that he was the reason the alarms were blaring. He was the reason two Hydra agents lay crippled a few meters behind him. They hadn't been able to stop him, and either would anybody else.

As these realisations struck him, so did the one that he might have a bullet in him. He guessed that it hadn't hit the bone or any major arteries, so it might've passed straight through. Either way, dealing with the wound would be intelligent.

Pain was reverberating through the whole of his shoulder, making it impossible for him to sense a specific source. He ducked into the first doorway he saw, apparently a bathroom. He reached up behind his back, hissing in pain as he touched the bullet's exit wound.

A medical kit was mounted upon the wall, and he considered grabbing it, but then decided not to. He didn't have the time to stitch himself and wouldn't be able to reach his back anyway. An idea suddenly struck him.

Harry reached for his power, but found his control over it fading. With a grimace, he slammed his back against the wall. Pain coursed through his body and he latched onto it, using it to fuel his concentration. His power rose within his gut, and instead of forcing it outwards, he let it move through him and towards his injured shoulder.

A brand new agony, cold and vicious, weighed down upon him, and a scream burst from his mouth. He did not lose focus, however, and as he concentrated, flesh began to knit itself together, though the pain didn't relent for one moment. It was perhaps a minute or two before the wound was completely healed, but Harry was not really too sure; the pain had been distracting, to say the least.

He ran from the bathroom and resumed his sprint towards where he hoped the exit was. Turning a corner, he found himself facing six black-clad men with assault rifles aimed at him. They were at least ten meters away, but Harry called up his power and sent it barrelling towards them. It hit them with all the force of a gentle breeze, reminding Harry his previous attacks had been from less than a meter away.

Swearing, he ignored his sore body and sprinted back around the corner.

Once again, he found himself staring down six assault rifle barrels. He began to gather his power. Perhaps a blast would dispel over this range, but a smaller attack might not. He was about to unleash the attack when the sound of footsteps registered upon his ears. He span, but not fast enough, and the butt of an assault rifle slammed into his temple, bringing oblivion.

* * *

As Harry slowly came to consciousness, he became aware of one thing above all others: he had a headache. He had experienced headaches before, but nothing like this. This was a terrible throbbing sensation, reverberating through his skull with every moment.

It took him a few moments to remember what might've given him the headache, and then he shot up into a sitting position. The swift movement brought a whole new wave of head pain, but he ignored it, looking around the room frantically. It appeared that he was in his old room, the only new feature a chair in one corner in which Agent Smith now sat.

Harry attempted to call up his power, but this pain was different, somehow. It no doubt originated from him using too much of his power at once, and he was unsure of how to negate it.

"That effect will fade with time," said Smith, and a jolt of surprise ran through Harry. How had he known? "Even if you _could_ use your powers, this place" - he motioned around the room - "is primed to explode if you try to attack me."

Harry frowned, and said, "You'll die as well."

"For the safety of the people, I am willing to die. Are you not?"

That didn't sound much like Hydra, and Harry most certainly was not. He remained silent.

Smith got to his feet and looked at his watch. "It's time for your morning training. Don't try anything stupid, or you'll be killed." His lips quirked up into a smile that for once appeared to be genuine. "Besides, perhaps if you become good enough with that power of yours, you _will_ be able to escape one day. Good job with that new healing power of yours, by the way."

With that, he left the room, leaving Harry to his thoughts. Even if he hated Smith, he was right. One day, even if it was an eternity away, Harry could be powerful enough so that he wouldn't have to slip away in the middle of the night to escape. Instead, he would leave through the front doors with a trail of broken bodies behind him, or perhaps he would burn the place to the ground, destroying his captors along with it.

Only two things were certain: Hydra would pay for their sins in blood, fire and pain, and they would regret the day they ever attempted to control Harry Potter.

 **A/N: Sorry about taking an eternity to update. Anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Harry flitted from shadow to shadow, his footsteps almost silent against the floor. He peaked around the corner, immediately ducking back as he caught sight of two armed men, each watching out of a window. Listening very carefully, he detected footsteps, and waited for them to once again to become immobile.

As soon as they did, he moved around the corner, his pistol held high. In the space of the second, he squeezed the trigger four times. Neither man had time to cry out before they found their chests splattered with red and hit the grounds like puppets with their strings cut.

For a few seconds, Harry waited, still crouching. When no one came, he moved over to the window. After checking for any kind of trap, he slid it open and climbed out into the night, clinging onto the ledge. A glance downwards revealed that he would most likely break his legs if he fell from this height; he was four floors up.

Reaching into the pouch at his side he extracted a device. He left the main part of it in his pouch, though attached the thin wire to the window sill. After ensuring it was secure, he kicked off of the wall and pressed a button. The wire was deceptively strong, easily holding his weight as he swung downwards and once again came into contact with the wall.

He repeated that abseiling motion a few times, and found himself suspended just above the window of the ground floor. Once again kicking off the wall, he flipped over so that he was now upside down. Moving with great caution, he lowered himself so that he could see through the window.

The sight of more guards greeted him. One of them was even looking out of the window and would have seen Harry had he looked upwards. The others were dotted around the large room, at least seven of them, though there might have been more.

Harry looked at the grassy courtyard below him, his eyes scanning for any possible threats. A device that was most likely a motion detector sat on the wall, emanating a red laser that shone through the darkness. He would have to launch his attack from here, then.

Drawing his pistol from where he had holstered it, Harry drew himself a few steps back up the wall, searing the image of the room into his mind. He prepared his power, pressed the button to release the rope, and kicked off the wall. In mid-air he adjusted himself so that he was once again upright, and a moment later smashed through the window in a shower of shattered glass.

Immediately, he crashed into a guard, firing a shot into him even as they both were sent to the floor. The others rushed to get their guns up, but Harry unleashed a shockwave of his power outwards. Over such a range, it wasn't too useful as anything but a distraction, but a distraction was all he needed.

His power burst outwards like a gust of wind, tipping tables, and sending guards staggering backwards. Harry dashed for cover and skidded behind it, lobbing a concussion grenade as he did so. It detonated a moment later with a tremendous bang and flash of bright light.

Harry stood from where he had taken cover behind a toppled bookcase, his gun in hand. Instantly, he took in the new positions of everything and began to fire. The gun barely kicked, allowing him to fire two shots into each man and rapidly switch his aim to the next with calm efficiency, marking each with red.

He was aiming far to his right when movement on his left caught his eye, and he rolled to the floor as the man began to fire. The shots smashed against the wall behind him, and the guard had no time to alter his aim as Harry came up from his roll and unleashed a blast of force from his left hand, his right hand still firing his pistol at the other side of the room.

The man was thrown backwards head over heels, and Harry span to finish off his last foe, who evidently hadn't been taken out by his barrage of badly aimed shots.

Harry managed to fire a single shot before a storm of rounds smashed into his back, sending him skidding to the floor as crimson liquid sprayed high into the air.

For a moment he stayed down, but then growled and climbed to his feet, discarding his pistol. He turned around at glared at the man who he had missed before looking back around the room. At least he had managed to hit everyone else, confirmed by the red splatters on each soldier who was climbing to his feet.

A door on the other side of the room opened, and Agent Smith entered. "A poor performance," he said. "If any more shots had hit you, you might pass for one of _your_ victims."

Harry glared at him, but nonetheless pulled off his outer layer, looking over the red paint covering it. Seven shots in the back would have doubtlessly killed him had they been bullets. He would not be able to heal a bullet through the spine or heart in time. Paintballs were quite a bit less threatening, however, and it would be easy to clear the bruises they had left behind. Nonetheless, Harry was annoyed that he had lost - not because of any punishment he might face, however. Rather, it was out of competitiveness.

It had now been about two years since his first escape attempt, and thus two years since he had really began to hone his control over his power. This meant that any attempts at corporal punishment tended to end with Harry "accidentally" injuring or killing the one who attempted to discipline him. That didn't mean he was capable of escape, though, or else he would already be gone.

Guards always hovered around him and he was well aware that though they might have been unable to stop him via non-lethal means, they would not hesitate to fill him with bullets if they thought there was a good chance of him escaping. And so Harry obeyed orders - for the most part. If they thought he was willing to be obedient and compliant, there was a greater chance they would assign him a mission; this time he wouldn't screw it up by attempting to escape upon his opportunity.

"Come, Harry," said Smith and strode from the room, his hand clasped behind his back. They both knew how easily Harry could kill him. yet he was fearless. Maybe it was because he knew Harry didn't want to face the consequences for purposefully killing someone as important as Smith. Maybe it was because he knew that Harry liked speaking to him - even if it was only an incredibly slight amount and only a result of the fact that Smith was the only person Harry had consistently spoken to in years.

Harry followed Smith from the room and even moments after he had been thinking about how he had a slight affection for him, thought about how simple it would be to launch a spine-shattering blast of force into him. His power was limited by range, but now he was a mere metre away. If he really tried, he might be able kill him without even leaving a mark. All it would take was a tap to the head, accompanied by a burst of power that would heavily damage Smith's brain and end his life.

Wisely, Harry once again denied himself killing the man, who soon said, "You are ten years old now, and I have no doubt that you are the best ten-year-old assassin who has ever lived." Smith's expression remained neutral as ever, but Harry could sense something lying beneath in the way he almost always could. Was it...proudness? Perhaps with a hint of sadness mixed in? That was truly odd. "You have trained in many ways to end life, and have used them many a time." As they walked, Smith looked to Harry and smirked. "It is unfortunate that the vast majority of times have been against my own men."

Harry matched Smith's expression a little more maliciously. "Accidents, I assure you."

"I am sure," said Smith, "however, that is not what I desire to talk about. As I said, you have an assassin's skill, even if you cannot be trusted to go on missions. If we ever want you to be trusted, we must ensure that you do not _want_ to escape. We thus must teach you our philosophies in far greater detail than before."

Harry was unsure as to _why_ they hadn't taught him in their ways from the start. Surely it would have been best to indoctrinate him in their ways since joining, rather than only with occasional mentions of it. Maybe they thought that before he had been too stupid to understand before this stage. What was more likely, was that they planning on treating him less harshly from now on, and didn't want him to associate his prior abuse with their ideologies.

Harry wished he could see what Smith was thinking, but that was far beyond his power. If he had eye contact he could sometimes sense emotions if he tried, but he was unsure as to whether that was due to his power or simply an affinity for picking up body language.

"Very well," Harry said. "When will my training begin?"

Smith stopped walking and turned to Harry. His blue eyes flashed with something unidentifiable. "Well-" He was cut off as his radio crackled to life, and he moved it up to his ear. "What?" he demanded.

If Harry hadn't been watching Smith's eyes so closely, he wouldn't have notice as they momentarily flickered to something behind him; he wouldn't have had time to dive aside as a projectile zipped past him and smacked against a wall.

Smith drew his gun in an instant and had it up a moment later, but it was not aimed Harry. Instead, it was pointed in the direction from which the attack had came. A barrage of thunderlike roars ripped through the quiet. It took Harry a moment to register that the muzzle of Smith's gun hadn't flashed, and it had not been him to fire.

Red blood exploded into the air as three rounds slammed into Smith's chest. Each had fallen around his heart and there was no doubt that he was dead, or would be so shortly.

Snatching Smith's pistol from mid-air as it tumbled from his grasp, Harry dove backwards and behind a wall. His mind was instantly racing with escape methods. In the darkness of the night it would be near impossible to spot any attackers. That problem was abruptly solved as a chorus of alarms rose up and light flooded the complex, accompanied by more gunshots cracking through the night.

Fully automatic assault rifles of a different calibre to those used by Hydra, Harry idly registered. They were under attack from multiple people, and judging by the silent and most definitely not a bullet projectile that had been fired at Harry, they were after him.

Acting rapidly, he checked Smith's gun was loaded, even though he knew it would be. It was, but was a slightly unfamiliar weapon to him, its weight foreign to his grip. That would not make much of a difference. Anyone who dared cross him would face the same fate - that said, who were the attackers? SHIELD, perhaps? It mattered not, for this was Harry's chance to escape and he was damned if he was going to let it pass.

With that thought, Harry leapt from cover, firing shots towards where the previous attacks had came from as he dashed towards the nearest building. The sound of the gunshots was indistinguishable from the sound of warfare in the background, yet the concrete around his feet still leapt as rounds smashed against it.

Harry ignored the bullets, crashing through a window and into a corridor. Without looking back, he dashed through the complex, pistol and power at the ready as he made his way towards his destination. As he rounded the corner, he found himself faced with four men. They seemed to hesitate; whether it was because Harry was a child, or because he was their target, he didn't know; it didn't make a difference. Harry unleashed his tightly-coiled power at them, about three metres away, and it slammed into them a moment later.

The crunches of breaking bones echoed through the air and a moment later the dull thumps of broken bodies hitting the floor and the clatter of metal weapons followed. Harry bounded over their bodies, uncaring of whether they were dead or alive and slammed into a door, blowing it off its hinges.

Stairs confronted him, leading downwards into the tunnels under the base. His step displayed no hesitation as he moved down them. After years at the base, he was confident that the underground area was familiar to him. The corridor was illuminated brightly with fluorescent lights upon its roof, but still every shadow - however rare - seemed to leap out at Harry, forming into jagged knives and muzzles of rifles.

Harry wished for something - _anything_ \- to distract him. If he was left unchallenged, his thoughts would remain upon the subject of his escape, and would only make things harder rather than easier. It would be better if his plan were to remain simple - over-complexifying would not aid him.

As he rounded the corner his wish of distraction was granted. Harry immediately recognised that the distance was too large for his power to be effective and squeezed down upon the trigger. The first shot missed as the black-clad man dove aside. The second sunk uselessly into a layer of kevlar. The third drilled through a metal helmet and into the man's head, staining the white wall behind him with crimson blood.

Without a second glance at the corpse, Harry continued onwards. He moved around the next corner - and then immediately ducked back as he laid eyes upon a dozen soldiers, at least ten metres away. There were not enough bullets in a magazine to fell all of them, and it was too far for his power to work. So Harry sprinted away, back down the corridor.

If there were that many in one place, they had clearly known where he was. How had they been able to find him? Harry glanced up to the security cameras mounted high upon the walls and swore; they had to have gained control of computer system. Depositing a bullet in the camera, he continued onwards, shooting out every camera he came across.

When he had went far enough, he doubled back. Now, the people in the corridor had dispersed, likely pursuing his false trail. He moved deeper through the winding tunnels, to where he knew another exit lay. It was not in the computer system, so the intruders shouldn't have known of its location.

But they did.

As Harry peeked around the corner which led to the hidden door, he rapidly drew back. Two guards were posted there, and there could be a thousand more outside. The sounds of battle had died in the background. And if these guards were anything to judge by, Hydra had not won.

The guards both looked the other way for a second and Harry finally got a good look at them. Their uniform was almost an exact replica of those worn by the guards at Hydra: black combat gear accompanied by a face-obscuring helmet of a matching colour. One difference, however, was prevalent. Instead of the tentacled-skull that sat upon the breast of a Hydra uniform, another circular logo was bore, a bird of some kind. Harry knew it to be an eagle, the symbol of SHIELD.

For a brief moment, he contemplated the thought of them helping him. The likelihood was far too small to risk handing himself into them. He had already killed agents of theirs - he couldn't remember how many.

Gathering his power, Harry dashed around the corner. At the sound of his footsteps upon concrete, the guards turned, but didn't get their rifles up fast enough to prevent the shimmers of energy that ripped straight through their chests. Like the dead men they were, they both dropped to the floor with naught but dull thumps.

Harry dashed through the exit and up the stairs, favouring speed instead of stealth. A bitter wind bit at his face as he escaped into the air. Less than a hundred metres in front of him was the wall that marked the base's perimeter: four metres of concrete topped by electric barbed wire. With a glance back at the base, he sprinted for the wall.

Not three seconds had passed before yells arose behind him and alarms began to blare. He would've never have tried this when Hydra was in control, but these people were not looking to kill him - or so he hoped. It seemed to be true, for once the chorus of gunshots rose again, the shots seemed to be aimed at the floor around him. Dirt and stones peppered his legs as he zig-zagged across the field, but no bullets.

He was closer now, ten metres away. He would only have one shot at this, or he would be captured. At five metres he leapt, bringing his power up under him. Such a large force was impossible for Harry to control with any finesse and it slammed into his legs with the force of a harsh fall, sending him flying upwards.

In the imitation of what Harry had once seen in the Olympics when he had been with the Dursleys, he arched his back and attempted to lead himself over. A scream burst from his throat as razor wire sliced into his shoulder and sent white hot electricity coursing through his body, and then he was crashing towards the ground on the other side.

He attempted to catch himself with his power but failed as he found himself crashing through the branches of a tree. Splinters of wood scratched at every inch of skin and then he was on the floor, his whole body racked with pain and shoulder most likely dislocated.

Through the agony, Harry allowed himself a small smile as he began to heal himself. He was not yet free, but he would be soon. Hydra might not have died by his hand, but he supposed SHIELD doing it for him was was close enough.

* * *

Harry pressed himself flush against the branch and slowed his breathing to a crawl. The sound of boots crunching leaves and twigs underfoot approached, but was drowned out as a helicopter swooped overhead. The aircraft moved away and the footsteps were there once again, growing ever closer. There were four people by Harry's estimation. As with the rest of the SHIELD agents, they would each be carrying tasers and assault rifles, wearing night-vision goggles.

It had been a matter of hours since he had escaped the Hydra base and he had been making incredibly slow progress through the forest since then. He guessed there were at least a hundred men out looking for him, and he had counted at least three helicopters. Thermal-imaging cameras were likely looking down upon him at that very moment, and he was suddenly glad of the disguising qualities of his Hydra uniform.

The men came into view and Harry stared upon them. As he had guessed, there were four. He had been wrong, however, about them wearing night-vision goggles. The light of the morning sun was beginning to penetrate the trees, and at this point night-vision would only hinder them. They were using flashlights, attached to the underside of their guns' barrels.

A light swung towards Harry's spot and he froze for a moment. It didn't move over him, however, and Harry receded deeper into the leaves of the tree. As soon as these men passed, he would follow them. If this forest was as large as he thought, SHIELD couldn't afford to have two patrols operating near to each other. So if he was following after one group, another wouldn't come close.

It was not too long before Harry was following them with the grace of a skilled hunter. Every step he took was measured and precise, as not to make more noise than was necessary.

It was hours later when the men finally turned around and started making their way back to the base. Harry, of course, continued. By this point he was fairly sure that his power was the only thing stopping him from collapsing - whether it be from thirst, starvation, exhaustion, or his aching body.

A few further hours later found Harry arriving at a road. It was only a few minutes later when he found a road sign - in English and repeated in French directly below. That greatly lowered the list of countries he could be in. Luck was on his side, for Hydra had seen it fit to teach him French as well as a list of other languages; he would be able to fit in, provided his social skills hadn't been too limited by his years of imprisonment, which they probably had been.

So with a deep breath, Harry made his way towards civilisation, free for the first time in years.

 **A/N: Sorry about the long update times. Tell me what you thought.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Rain lashed from the sky, beating against the pavement with a harsher ferocity than the city of London had seen in a few weeks. It did not bother Harry. Perhaps it would have, if he was a sniper, but he was not and rain simply made for better cover. Accompanied by the thunder of the storm and murky darkness of the night, it made him near invisible—something that greatly helped during the tasks he had partaken in since he had escaped from Hydra and into the Canadian wilderness four years ago.

He could've been an assassin; it was what he had been trained for—what he had always been best at—after all. Therefore, it would be utterly obvious. How many professional child assassins were there? With his level of skill, no manner of disguise would hide him from SHIELD and Hydra. He was now fourteen now and, as far as he was aware, had been able to avoid both organisations' radar for four years. Still they would find him if he did anything to gain their attention—if they lived up to their reputation, that was.

Since he could not become an assassin or mercenary, he became the thing next best suited to his skillset: a thief. He had no need for people to hire him, and working alone greatly reduced any risk of betrayal. It was also rather hard to gain a reputation when you entered and left with no evidence and no sightings, which also suited Harry's purpose rather well. It was also his choice as to where he targeted.

The extensive language training Hydra had given him had enabled him to work all over the world, but tonight he was in London—not to steal the Crown Jewels, or anything like that. While he had a _chance_ of getting them, it would be immensely difficult and they would be absolutely impossible to sell anyway. No, he was here for far less risky a mission, but it wasn't as though it wouldn't still have a high reward.

Harry drew his already-soaked hood closer and pulled his backpack off, getting down to one knee. Rain peppered his back but he shielded his bag, both from it and anyone who might be watching. Extracting a gun-shaped object and tucking it in his pocket, he got to his feet and continued along the street. His target building was close now.

He glanced around to see if anyone would be able to see him. This being London, multiple people still littered the street, even at four in the morning. It would not matter; as Harry had discovered from many years of thievery, people didn't tend to look up—and especially not when rain was cascading from the sky in torrents. Nonetheless, he would still look suspicious, clothed in all black waterproofs—well, they were _called_ waterproofs but they didn't do all that much to keep out the rain.

Finding himself at his planned location, Harry turned the grappling gun in his hands skyward. It was the only piece of advanced technology he had, and even then there were an assortment of things he would've preferred.

The gadget beeped as it locked onto the edge of the of the building's roof. Harry squeezed down upon the trigger, and with a sound like a release of pressurized air, it fired. It latched onto the roof, and a moment later, Harry began to squeeze on the trigger again. It dragged him upwards for a few seconds before he managed to find his feet on the wall.

Harry clutched the handle as tightly as possible and compressed the trigger even more. Now he sprinted up the wall, aided by the rope pulling him backwards and bounding over windows as he came across them. Mere seconds passed before he was atop the roof. A glance back towards the floor and a distinct lack of yelling confirmed that he had not been seen.

On the roof was a ventilation shaft, what appeared to be a backup generator, and, most importantly, a door. Before moving over to it, however, Harry removed a device from his bag and placed it upon the generator. He walked to the door, ensuring a lack of CCTV before dropping to one knee in front of it.

There seemed to be three locks, one fingerprint scanner, one keypad and, lastly, a physical lock. None would be a problem. Harry had discovered that his power tended to react badly with electrical objects if he pushed it into them in the right–or wrong, he supposed—way. So he did just that and the locks fizzled and sparked. He had long since mastered the art of lock picking, so even the most expensive lock offered next to no opposition.

Once upon a time, Harry might have simply blown the door of its hinges. This door, however, would probably provide a lot of resistance; that was proven as he opened it and saw it to be at least a few inches thick of some metal. He suspected that the steel door at the Hydra base he had destroyed so long ago had been faked in some way, for it had taken him years to replicate the feat upon a similar security door.

Harry made his way down the dimly lit stairs that immediately greeted him with as much speed that caution would allow. Being rapid might be vital; no alarms blared, yet he knew that many an alarm system was silent.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairwell, he ensured there were no cameras before stripping off his soaked outer layers and pulling on a balaclava. He had already known of the position of the cameras from the floor plans he had _procured._ He supposed the lack of security here was to give any would-be thief the illusion of security. There would be cameras in the corridor outside and as soon as Harry was spotted the guards would be headed for him—if they weren't already.

With a deep breath, Harry unholstered his suppressed pistol and dashed into the corridor, ready to rob the bank. For years previous, he had stuck to pickpocketing and breaking and entering, fearing SHIELD finding him. But this was too great an opportunity to miss.

The top floor only bore the empty offices of executives and bosses. Harry need to get to the vault, which was on the bottom floor. Luck was on his side, for there was an elevator; that was why he had entered upon the top floor—it was the only one with access to it. Harry moved over and ran his eyes over the lock. It had the same composition of the ones upon the outer door. Breaking it would not summon the elevator, however.

Harry removed a device from his bag and placed it upon the door, backing away around the corner. Extracting another device, he squeezed down on the trigger and a thunderlike boom shook the building as the explosive detonated. After a moment's hesitation, he detonated the other explosive he had planted upon the backup generator. The police would be heading to his location anyway.

Turning back into the corridor, Harry fired a bullet into the camera before moving to the now destroyed doors of the elevator. He peered up and down the dark shaft. The elevator was on the bottom floor. Good.

Once again taking out his grappling gun, he fired it into the top of the elevator shaft. It stuck firm and this time he clipped the gun to his belt, and then dived into the shaft. Wind rushed through his hair as he fell. It was a second before the rope tensed and slowed his descent. Another explosive blew a hole in the roof of the elevator below him, and he steadily lowered himself in.

The doors weren't open and in this space an explosive would end Harry as readily as it would the door. There was only one option. Power welled within Harry's gut and he drove it forward with a massive force. Steel buckled, so Harry did it again, and again, and again.

It was half a minute before an exhausted Harry made his way out of the elevator. No guard greeted him, and that was exactly the reason he had chosen a London bank. No guns meant no opposition, and therefore no gaining attention via unnecessary kills.

Another security door lay in front of him but it was quickly destroyed by another explosive charge. Harry made his way through, shooting out a camera. In front of him lay the vault, only blocked from him by metal bars, which only took a few bursts of power to bend from Harry's path. He stepped into the vault and pulled a waterproof duffel bag from his backpack.

By his estimations, he guessed he had been in the building for about three minutes. Police response time would be quick with multiple explosions sounded, so he would give himself a minute in the vault at most. For the first time since he had entered the bank, nervousness bit at him, but he batted it away.

As he had promised himself, he was leaving the vault a minute later, his second bag now stuffed with money. He dashed back to the elevator shaft as sirens began to register upon the edge of his senses. Grabbing his grappling gun from where it hung, he clipped it to his belt and let it yank him upwards.

At the top, he swung out of the shaft and back through the doors, landing with a roll. Blue light now bathed the corridor, its source most likely emergency services outside. For a moment, Harry held still. From the floors beneath him he could hear men yelling, already inside the building. A helicopter seemed to be outside, and Harry swore. It would doubtlessly have thermal cameras, and he had long since outgrown his Hydra clothing.

There went his plan of a quiet and unnoticed escape.

With a curse, he made his way over to the window at the end of the corridor; he had originally planned on entering through it, but unlike the roof, it could be seen from the street. He would have to exit through it, however. Now he placed his hand against it and shattered it with a pulse of his power.

The building on the opposite side of the street was taller, and a plan immediately formulated itself in Harry's mind. As the sound of people charging up the stairs registered upon his ears, he threw a canister backwards and it exploded into a cloud of white smoke. He aimed the grappling hook towards the opposite building, and fired it as soon as locked on.

As men yelled and choked behind him, Harry was yanked out into the darkness. Rain and cold wind bit into his skin, and he had no time to prepare before he reached his destination.

Pain ripped into him as he smashed through the window, his shoulder catching the frame and sending him spinning to the floor on the other side.

Harry stood and looked back to the bank, but with smoke pouring out of the window there was no way to tell whether or not they had seen him leave. Whichever it was, it would be best to make his escape with great haste—before they realised where he was. He glanced around the room he was in, apparently an office, and began to clean up his blood.

A minute later he made his way across the building until he reached the opposite side. Opening the window, he leaned out, locking his grappling gun onto the roof above and trying not to think about how easily he could fall to his death a hundred metres below

The windows were slick underfoot as he abseiled down, but still he continued. It must've been about a minute before he touched the ground and headed towards the underground tube station.

It wasn't until he was on a train heading north when a sensation of pure panic settled upon him. He searched all over himself, yet he couldn't find it. A horrible terror clawed its way up his spine. After all of these years, he had failed upon his first major operation, making a _stupid_ mistake that might cost him everything.

His secondary holster which had been attached to his bag was slashed open, whether by glass or shrapnel, he knew not. He also didn't care, for it made no difference. He had been wearing gloves, but the gun would still be covered in his fingerprints from before, and now it was lost.

Now, there was only one thing to do: run, for his life and his freedom.

 **A/N: Tell me what you thought.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Harry kept his hood low, concealing half of his face from any cameras that might be about. It was the day after his bank robbery, and he had been incapable of doing anything to retrieve the gun. If he had attacked the police with his powers, it would reveal him just as readily as his fingerprints—he didn't even know where the gun was anyway.

As soon as his fingerprints entered the computer system, people would be straight upon his tail, SHIELD and Hydra alike. He wasn't sure which one was more likely to find him; all of his searching had yielded no results on Hydra but for a trail of breadcrumbs too perfectly set out for him—most likely a trap from SHIELD—so they were probably now a small organisation.

Hydra's searching—if they hadn't been entirely eliminated by SHIELD—would be aided by them having been the ones to train him. He wasn't quite whether or not that would negate the sheer resources and numbers SHIELD seemed to have. Either way, both were threats, and so he could do nothing but run.

Nervousness reigned over his mind, far more than it ever had in the years since his escape. He was in Portsmouth, ready to board a ferry to France. He wouldn't take it all the way, of course; he would likely be caught upon CCTV and recognised along the way, even with his now blond hair and blue eyes. At some point he would jump over the side of the ferry, and with his power he would be able to reach Belgium—even more easily if he managed to procure a boat.

The ferry he had planned on taking would leave in two hours but it would be best to stow aboard beforehand.

Harry was about to enter the port's gates when he saw them. If it weren't for his constant paranoia, they would have been as inconspicuous as they were attempting to appear. But they weren't. Perhaps it was the too-casual way they held themselves, the way one of them was touching their ear a little too frequently, or his power giving him a warning, but Harry knew something was wrong.

The two men leant against a lamppost just inside the entrance of the port, appearingly chatting. Harry made no change in his stride other than simply moving past the gate instead of in yet he analysed them in further detail. He had been correct about his hunch. Both of them were wearing earpieces, flesh-coloured, yet visible to a skilled eye.

Harry swallowed and fingered at the handle of his pistol—not the one from yesterday. This wasn't a coincidence. He had underestimated SHIELD, and they had already found him. He guessed that he wouldn't be going to France, then.

Clenching his eyes shut for a moment, Harry focused upon the task at hand. They could already have eyes upon him. There were too many people to launch an operation without causing a panic or killing a few. SHIELD would wait until he was alone and then would strike—unless they decided they couldn't afford to waste any more time, that was; Hydra would go straight to the second stage. If he sought to retain his livelihood, he would have to get out of here _now._

An alleyway was fast approaching, and Harry decided that it would be best to duck down it and sprint for his life. Otherwise, he would remain in their sight if they'd already seen him. Knocking back any anxiety, he glanced down the alley, assuring that it wasn't a dead end before strolling down it as though it was what he had intended all along.

A slight confidence settled down upon him at the lack of any opposition, yet he remained cautious. He could not afford to make any mistakes.

The sound of a car pulling to a stop behind him grabbed his attention but he didn't turn. Instead, he lifted his arm up, glancing at the reflection in his watch. Two men were climbing out of a black van, both wearing black suits. It appeared as though his pursuers had given up trying to remain hidden.

Harry reached into his hoodie and took his gun from its holster. Perhaps he wasn't as good with a pistol as he had been when he left Hydra—one tended to lapse in skill when they stopped training for eighteen hours a day—but he was still far better than average, and would likely be able to dispatch of both within a second, two at most.

Formulating his plan within a moment, Harry began to let his power rise up in his gut. In the same instant, he span around, sliding his pistol from under his hoodie and beginning to fire a moment later. The gun spat two bullets at one man and Harry changed his aim to the next. Once again, its muzzle flashed as it let out a mighty roar and sent two pieces of metal at the second at hundreds of miles an hour.

Something uncomfortable rose in Harry's gut as blood and bone sprayed into the air and he killed for the first time in a time he didn't quite recall. He ruthlessly beat away the sensation and turned, sprinting away. Perhaps it was some kind of divine intervention, or perhaps it was luck, but Harry happened to glance down at a puddle formed of yesterday's rain as he leapt over it. It was only due to that he saw the reflection of the rooftop, and therefore was able to dive out of the way as an arrow— _a bloody arrow_ —came flying down at him.

Instead of embedding itself in what would have been his shoulder, it clattered against the floor, its tip shattering. Harry sent a blast of his power upwards but the man was already gone and all he succeeded in was sending rubble down upon himself.

Incredulity slammed into him like a sledgehammer; SHIELD had sent _Hawkeye_ after him—and he had missed! He wasn't quite sure which of those things was crazier. Hawkeye was possibly SHIELD's best assassin. It said quite a lot that they were sending him after Harry, one of those things being that his chances of escape had just been dramatically narrowed.

Unconfident, however, was not something he could afford to be. So Harry gathered his wits and got to his feet, returning to his previous sprint. Two men rounded the corner as he came to the end of the alley, but both were cast back as a wall of force slammed against them.

Gunshots were obviously unfamiliar sounds to the people of England, for as Harry slammed into a crowd of them they looked more confused than scared. That was corrected as he raised his gun and fired into the chest of a determined-looking man who could only be a SHIELD agent. Now, they were screaming and running, and Harry was among them, his face a mask of matching panic.

No sane sniper would fire upon a man in a crowd this tightly packed when their target was shorter than the vast majority of its people. Somehow, Harry didn't think that sanity was necessary for joining SHIELD–Hawkeye used a bow and arrow, for God's sake.

Harry looked around constantly, looking for anyone that might seek to do him harm. He didn't doubt that there were agents with tasers and stun guns looking to take him down, and he most certainly would not let them. He would need to escape the crowd soon; Hawkeye wouldn't miss a second time, even in a crowd.

So as he came across the second next alleyway, he ducked into it and immediately set off at a sprint, hugging one wall and keeping his eyes locked upon all directions at once.

The shape of a man dropped from the roof, two stories above, and landed in front of Harry. It took him only a moment to analyse the figure: blue eyes, blond hair, handsome face, and bow and arrow.

"Hawkeye," he muttured, his pistol's aim fixed upon the assassin, whose arrow was nocked upon its string and aimed at him. If Harry shot him, Hawkeye would release the arrow, and Harry would find himself either skewered through the head or blown to pieces. Maybe he would be able to block it with his power, but not while firing a gun.

"Put the gun down, kid," said Hawkeye. "I don't want to hurt you."

With a knowing smile, Harry nodded. "I'm _sure."_ He waved his gun's barrel slightly. "That's why you're aiming a bow and arrow at me."

Hawkeye shrugged. "I doubted you'd comply if I didn't."

"I can see where you'd draw that conclusion."

Harry stared into Hawkeye's eyes but sensed nothing; he needed to be closer to sense emotion. What he did see, was that Hawkeye seemed to be a little _too_ focused on not letting his eyes sway from him. An assassin needed to be completely aware of his surroundings and for whatever reason, Hawkeye was not.

Broken glass crunched behind him, and Harry realised why, but did not let it show. He let his left hand fall to his side–and a moment later swung it straight back up, unleashing his gathered power. He was not aiming for Hawkeye, however. Instead the power smashed up under his legs and thrust him forward and upwards.

As soon as he had moved, Hawkeye had fired his arrow. Instead of burying itself in Harry's shoulder as intended, it sailed under him as he flew through the air. It embedded in someone else with the sound of metal tearing into flesh, but Harry paid it no mind. Instead, he reoriented himself so that he landed upon his feet behind Hawkeye.

In the same instant, both Harry and Hawkeye fired their weapons. Both hissed in pain as they found the other had the exact same intention as them and they shot each other in the leg.

Harry tore out the arrow with a snarl, but neither let the pain give them any pause as they surged forward to fight, both discarding their weapons.

It only took the first attack for Harry to see that in a fair fight, he wouldn't stand a chance. He did not fight fairly. If it weren't for the men surrounding them who only weren't firing for fear of hitting Hawkeye, Harry would have already smashed Hawkeye against the wall, shattered his spine, broken his neck, and torn him in half. But he did not.

Instead, he and Hawkeye clashed in a flurry of blows and blood.

Hawkeye ducked under a punch, and then sidestepped a kick from Harry's uninjured leg. He attempted to bring his elbow down upon it, but Harry retreated the leg too fast, snapping another kick at Hawkeye's knee, who leapt over it.

Harry dodged to the side of a punch and surged forward, punching fast enough that no human should have been able to block it.

Hawkeye did. He smashed his forearm against Harry's, knocking it aside before returning with an identical blow of his own which Harry blocked in exactly the same way. What Harry was unable to dodge, however, was Hawkeye's next attack, a sweeping kick that snatched his right leg from under him and sent him stumbling backwards.

With lethal speed, Hawkeye launched six other attacks in rapid succession. The fifth and sixth each caught him, one in the stomach and one in the head, driving the wind from his chest and the thoughts from his head. He staggered backwards, head spinning, and then Hawkeye was upon him again.

Blood sprayed from Harry's mouth as Hawkeye's fist slammed into his jaw, but Harry didn't cry out in pain; he already had an arrow in his leg, after all. Instead, he fell backwards, using Hawkeye's surprise at his sudden fall to bring his power forward and slamming into Hawkeye's back.

With the grace of an acrobat, Hawkeye attempted to find his feet, but found them kicked out from under him by Harry. He collapsed atop Harry, and each instantly went for each other's throats.

Clutching one another's neck, they rolled, legs intertwined and bleeding onto the concrete. Eventually, Harry ended up on the bottom, his vision blotting as he was deprived as oxygen. Any further, and he was going to kill Hawkeye, at which point the man would be useless to him and the SHIELD agents would swarm upon him.

That would be a bad situation, but it was better than being taken or dying. So Harry focused his power forward, bending his pain to his will and preparing it to rob Hawkeye off his head.

And then Hawkeye's forehead clashed with his, and his head smashed against the concrete. A fast and dull flash of pain, and then all was black.

 **A/N: Sorry about taking so long. I'm just lazy. Anyway, there's the first close combat fight scene (I think). Tell me what you thought.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The cell was bare and grey, eerily reminiscent of the ones Harry had once been kept in at Hydra. Even the table and chair were both nearly the same, metal and smooth and featureless. Harry knew he could have torn them apart, but it would not help. The walls and door were undoubtedly durable, and SHIELD would neutralise him long before he managed to breach them, most likely with some kind of gas from the ventilation shaft that sat high on the wall, far too thin for him to escape through.

So Harry waited, calm and patient, not allowing them to glimpse his power in any further detail than they had already.

It must've been about half an hour before the first SHIELD agent entered, a woman, to Harry's slight surprise. In that moment, he contemplated attempting to break out, but there was probably a second door behind the first to prevent any such occurrence.

The woman was a redhead with a beautiful face and stunning figure that was only enhanced by the rather tight SHIELD uniform. She was one of the most attractive women that Harry had ever seen, and it wasn't much of a guess as to why she had been sent to convince him to join SHIELD—or at least, that's what Harry assumed she had been sent to do from the fact that he hadn't already been executed.

"Hello," she said. Her tone was so friendly—almost flirtatious, in fact—that it might have convinced anyone else that she was on their side; it only served to annoy Harry—they thought he was that weak and stupid? "I'm Agent Natasha Romanoff."

Harry cocked his head to the side and said, "No, you're not."

If she was at all startled by the statement, she hid it extremely well. "And what do you mean by that?" she asked. All the prior friendliness had vanished. Her voice was as neutral as the grey of the room's walls.

"Romanoff," Harry said, "is a Russian surname. Unless you're actually a man under those clothes, it should be either Romanoffa, or more likely, Romanova." He allowed his gaze to trail down from her face and over her body. "I somehow doubt that you are a man, Miss Romanova."

 _"_ _You speak Russian?"_ she asked, speaking in Russian.

Harry smirked. _"Enough to get by. Does your name actually ever fool anyone?"_

She matched Harry's smirk. "Not everyone speaks Russian," she said, and then added, "Please don't speak it again, by the way; you pronounced almost everything wrong."

"Oh well. I never claimed to be good at it." Harry glanced down at his cuffed wrists. "I suppose it would be best if we moved past introductions at some point. I'm fairly sure you already know who I am, so could you tell me _where_ I am?"

Natasha, or whatever her name was, nodded. "A SHIELD base."

"Really?" Harry said, his pitch rising. "I hadn't guessed by the way SHIELD captured me and your uniform has three SHIELD logos on, and my new set of clothes has a big SHIELD logo on the chest. I thought this might be Hydra, or perhaps a fancy clothing store. Speaking of that, who changed my clothes? I feel I need to know which agents to avoid when I inevitably join SHIELD?"

"Oh? Who says we're trying to recruit you?" Natasha asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Well, I can't imagine what else you're doing," he said. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be so already. If you wanted me imprisoned, you'd have done away with this stupid demonstration of trust and not risked your life coming in here with me."

"And what, exactly," Natasha said, "makes you think I'm risking my life?"

"You're the semi-notorious Black Widow." Once again, Natasha seemed unsurprised that he'd figured it out. "You have no powers, and after spending the last few minutes _thoroughly examining_ your lovely outfit, I conclude that you also have no weapons."

"Go on then, Harry. Show me your powers."

"Is that a pick-up line?" Harry asked, grinning. "I feel inclined to alert you that I'm underage—wait, that depends on what country we're in. Would you mind telling me?"

Natasha laughed. "That was the worst attempt at subtlety I've ever heard—and no."

"What about it being a pick-up line?" Harry asked, his eyes glittering with amusement. "And I'll assume that _you_ were the one to change my clothes, you pervert."

Natasha sighed in exasperation. "No to both."

Harry winked. "The second part wasn't a question."

"Are you flirting with me while you decide whether or not to attack me?"

All expression was instantly gone from Harry's face, and his eyes were once again cool and deadly as an icicle through the heart. "Forgive me. I have grown rusty in the art of espionage if I am truly that easy to read."

Natasha remained amused. "Don't feel too bad. Being pretty isn't the only reason I was sent to speak to you."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "And what were the other reasons?" he said, his tone careful.

Now Natasha moved to the chair on the other side of the table and sat down upon it. "I can relate to you best out of anyone else here. As you've figured out, I was an assassin. SHIELD brought me in. They cleared me of my crimes, and they can do it for you too. All you have to do is join and train for a while before working," she said, and when Harry looked into her eyes, he could sense that she was at least partially genuine.

"And what of my freedom? Will SHIELD let a 'dangerous criminal' like me out? Especially with my powers."

Natasha's lips quirked up into a slight smile, as if amused that Harry was missing something. "It's _because_ of your powers you'll get more freedom than most agents. Someone like me is hard to stop, but eventually still human and will lose against a bullet if I don't get away quick enough." She leaned forward. "You, however, will be unstoppable with the training they have to give you if they want you to be effective. And the last thing SHIELD wants is some unstoppable rogue agent on the loose, so they're not going to piss you off."

Harry leaned back in his chair, allowing the power rushing through him to disperse and withdrawing his clenched fist from under the table, where he had been prepared to send a blast of bone-shattering energy into Natasha's torso; it would have undoubtedly killed her, breaking her ribs and driving them into her heart. Perhaps it would have broken her spine too, at this range.

SHIELD's speech sounded remarkably similar to that of Hydra, but perhaps this was different. Either way, if he didn't agree he would spend the rest of his resistance confined to a cell; there was only one correct decision.

"So, do I have to wear the tight uniform like yours? I think it would really show off my muscles."

Humour tended to catch people off guard, and Harry would use any weapon in his arsenal if it meant eventually ensuring his freedom. Hydra had not been able to control him, and neither would SHIELD.

* * *

"Too slow," said Natasha, casually dodging the punch.

Harry grunted, swinging another destined-to-miss punch at her gut. "More like you're too fast." Expecting her to dodge his next punch as well, as she had been doing for the last five minutes, he was caught off guard as she blocked it, and then pulled him close, wrapping an arm around his waist before throwing him over her hip and to the floor.

"You're just sloppy." Natasha sat atop his back, yanking his arm up behind his back.

"Ah, who would've thought," said Harry. "A fifteen-year-old that went five years without formal training, looking sloppy in comparison to one of the world's best assassins." Natasha released him from his grip and he climbed to his feet. "I would win if I could just use my powers."

"And I would win if I could use my gun. What's your point?" With that, Natasha walked away, and Harry only glanced at her behind for a moment before following. Even if having to fight a far superior opponent annoyed him, it did have some upsides, such as getting to stare at Natasha in tight clothing. It was safe to that she was a fair bit more attractive than Agent Smith had ever been, so Harry was already enjoying SHIELD a bit more than Hydra.

It had been around a week since Harry had "joined" SHIELD and he was yet to leave the base. Luck was on his side, for he didn't seem to be in the same base as the friends of the SHIELD agents he had killed, and SHIELD hadn't mentioned it either. Instead of receiving looks of rage, he merely received ones of curiosity, and he couldn't exactly blame the agents for that; after all, he was a fifteen-year-old who had turned up out of the blue and seemed to have been apprenticed to the Black Widow herself.

Their suspicions about him being an apprentice to Natasha weren't necessarily unfounded. She had taken a liking to him and seen it fit to take him under her wing and manage his training, a result of their shared background, or so he suspected. She might've been selected for the job by SHIELD, for all he knew. She was elite in almost all things he needed to be taught, and was rather surprisingly quite a good teacher.

Now Harry and Natasha walked to the mess hall, as always drawing all kinds of stares. It was quite simple to differ between the ones staring at Harry and the ones staring at Natasha by the expressions on their faces—the amount of drool was particularly telling. Harry was quite frankly appalled at the level of stealth among what claimed to be the world's best spying agency.

He spared his food but a glance as it was dumped upon his tray by a moody-looking recruit. It was surprisingly good, far better than Hydra's. He found it quite strange how Hydra had seemed to have purposefully tried their hardest to make their agents dissatisfied—or him at least. SHIELD did the opposite and had already garnered more loyalty from him than Hydra ever had, meaning that he didn't fantasise killing everyone there every night.

If Hydra had been nice to him from when he was young, he would have likely been loyal to them. He supposed their methods created harder and harsher warriors, but what was the point in creating a warrior that hated you? Either Hydra had been sadistic idiots, or something suspicious had been afoot. It no longer mattered all that much, but it was still a slightly curious matter.

Casting those thoughts aside, Harry followed Natasha over to a table and sat down. Almost robotically, he shovelled food into his mouth, staring straight ahead. He would stay with SHIELD for now if it meant no more running, no more hiding. Natasha had gone into greater detail about how SHIELD might accept him as a consultant, rather than an agent, which would mean he would only be called up in times of great crisis; that seemed like a rather good option.

He was broken from his thoughts as someone else sat at their table. It took him only a moment to identify the man. It took him a moment later to break into a smirk as he noticed a purple bruise upon the man's cheek and that he was wearing a turtleneck, probably to conceal the other marks.

"So, how have you been, Hawkeye?"

In return, Hawkeye glared, but amusement shone out of his eyes. "Fine." He glanced over Harry. "Well, as fine as I can be without any fancy powers to heal my injuries for me."

"Ah, yes, Hawkeye," Natasha said with a smirk. "Injuries inflicted by a fifteen-year-old boy."

Hawkeye switched his glare to her. "A _super-powered_ fifteen-year-old boy," he said insistently. "There's a difference."

Harry watched the interaction with amusement. "I assume that you two know each other."

Both turned to each other and simultaneously said, "Yes."

"Okay then. That was slightly creepy." He glanced to Hawkeye. "Do you have a crappy, fake Russian name too, or shall I just keep on referring to you by your _really cool_ codename?"

Hawkeye reached out his hand for Harry to shake. "I'm Clint Barton."

Shaking his hand, Harry said, "I'm sure you know who I am. I suppose this is the part where we apologise for trying to kill each other."

"I wasn't trying to kill you," Hawkeye said with a frown. His eyes proved that he was telling the truth, and Harry had no other reason to believe otherwise.

"Ah," Harry said. "You apologise with shooting me with an arrow, and I'll apologise for shooting you in the leg and trying to kill you." He glanced at Hawkeye's leg, but his view was blocked by the table. "I assume from the fact that you're walking that I didn't hit the bone or anything major."

"Yeah." Hawkeye waved in the direction of his left leg, the one Harry had hit. "Straight in one side and out the other; probably one of the cleanest bullet wounds I've ever had."

The arrow wound had been easy for Harry to heal, especially provided that SHIELD had already treated the wound. It also helped that it hadn't been intended to penetrate very deeply, or so Harry guessed. "You're welcome," he said through a mouthful of food.

A snort of laughter escaped Hawkeye. "I'm welcome for you having the good grace to shoot me in the leg?" His tone was a complete deadpan.

Harry nodded. "Of course," he said, his tone as flat as Hawkeye's. With a stretch, he got to his feet. "I'm going to practise my shooting. Anyone coming?"

From behind him, a deep voice prompted him to turn, saying, "I was hoping to speak to you first, Agent Potter."

The man was dark-skinned and tall, perhaps a few inches over six feet and easily towering over Harry. He wore a leather trench coat, but that was not the feature by which Harry identified him. No, that was via the scars stretching over his left eye, covered by an eyepatch.

"Director Fury," Harry said calmly, fighting back the urge to swallow nervously in the man's presence. This was his first time meeting the man, and he had heard nothing about him but things that scared even him.

"We have much to discuss," Fury said. Without anything further, he turned and walked from the room. Harry followed.

 **A/N: Sorry about taking so long, but you've probably came to expect that by now. Anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"You're telling me that my power is actually _magic?"_ Harry said. All fear of Fury was suddenly gone. It was very difficult to be terrified of a man who believed in magic, no matter what you might've heard about him.

"Yes." Fury's tone and face remained as neutral as they had been for the rest of the meeting, and it was impossible to read anything off of him. Harry couldn't even sense anything in his eyes.

He leaned in a bit closer to Fury. _"Magic?"_

"That's what they call it," Fury said

Harry placed a hand upon his forehead and sighed, suddenly regretting joining SHIELD, the organisation headed by a man who believed in magic. "And who are _'they'_?" he asked. "Wait, don't tell me." He placed a hand to his chin and hummed. "Fairies! No, not fairies? Wizards!"

"Wizards," Fury confirmed before Harry could get any further.

"Of course," Harry muttered. " _Wizards._ "

Fury reached into his desk and pulled out a manila folder. "We don't keep anything about them on the computer system," he said, seeing Harry's look of confusion. "We don't want people like Stark to even have a _chance_ of getting their hands on them. You can imagine how chaotic it would be if he managed to get a magical set of Iron Man armour."

Stunned, Harry nodded. "Yes," he said. "Of course a genius scientist like Tony Stark would believe in magic."

Placing the folder in front of Harry, Fury said, "It might be hard to take in, but I'm not lying. I myself didn't believe when it I was first briefed, and still wouldn't had I not seen a demonstration."

"So why am I only hearing about it now? Does Natasha know?"

Hopefully not _everyone_ in SHIELD was crazy; Fury was enough for Harry.

"Agent Romanoff does not know of wizards—or at least if she does, we weren't the ones to tell her," Fury said, staring at Harry with his one eye. "As much as I dislike it, SHIELD has no jurisdiction over wizards. That means we cannot risk interacting with them, lest we start a war, which wouldn't go well for either side."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "SHIELD doesn't interact with _wizards_ ," he said, veiling the incredulity he felt as the last word roll off his tongue, "yet here I am."

For a moment, Fury seemed to hesitate. "You are a…special case."

One of Harry's eyebrows raised. "I am? Why?"

A flash of emotion flared in Fury's eyes, too quick for Harry to do anything but know that it had been there. "You were missing. They couldn't find you, so they enlisted SHIELD's help."

"And you're telling me that I'm the first wizard to ever go missing? And that even though I didn't know I was a wizard, you came after me?"

"We were contacted when you were ten. You see, the wizard school uses a system that automatically sends out invitation letters. The person handling the letters had heard of Hydra and immediately came to us, seeing as the letter didn't give the location of the Hydra base except for the country." Fury sighed, leaning back into his seat. "We found the location and immediately launched an attack on it. We defeated Hydra, but you escaped."

Harry eyed Fury, looking for any further flaws in his story. "You were the director at this time?"

With a nod, Fury said, "I had taken control about two weeks prior."

"And you had a taskforce of wizards ready to rescue me, but you chose to go in alone?"

"It might not have been a wise decision," Fury said, scowling, "but I was new and chose to prove that SHIELD didn't require any assistance from wizards."

While Harry wasn't exactly glad that Fury had been using him for some kind of personal agenda, it was still a realistic mistake to make; humans tended to be prideful, and especially more so when confronted with people who weren't exactly human, but better—like Harry, for example. Hopefully Fury had improved since then. Harry was fairly sure that he had, else he would be in a cell somewhere, or more likely, six feet under.

"So," said Harry, "if you dislike wizards so much, why are you telling me this? Wouldn't it be easier for you to just keep me thinking I'm a superhuman?"

Fury grimaced. "They want you back," he said. "Keeping you for even this long has been difficult, but we wanted to-"

"-ensure that I wasn't a complete psycho, and also secure my future loyalty by not locking me up in a cell."

As expected, Fury looking completely unsurprised that Harry had figured out his plan. It wasn't exactly a complex one. "Yes," he said. "Now we've done that, I hope that you can return to SHIELD at some point in the future—for pay, of course—once you finish your education."

Any threats need not be said. Harry knew that if he took any other career choice, SHIELD would watch him like hawks. If he became an assassin or something of the like, they wouldn't hesitate to kill or capture him—if they _could_ catch him, of course. Realistically, he had no option but to return to SHIELD at some point. In the meantime, "magical" education might prove useful.

"So, I'm guessing I'm leaving soon?"

"Yes, Mr Potter," a male voice came from behind him. It was a testament to how quiet the speaker had been that in the sound-proofed office, silent but for the voices of Harry and Fury, that neither of them—both professional spies—had noticed him.

Fury's gun was up so fast that Harry barely saw him move. And then it was swinging towards the corner from which the voice had originated. Though slower, Harry mirrored his movements, pistol in one hand and power gathering in the other. Neither agent had an opportunity to fire before their guns were both ripped from their hands and floating in the air in front of them.

Robbed of his pistol, Harry resorted to his power. In the room, less than five metres wide, there was no way the assailant could dodge. The air shimmered and a force barrelled forward, sending objects scattering from Fury's desk.

And then it was gone. The unnatural shadows Harry now saw the voice had come from had simply enveloped it. A moment later, the darkness seemed to melt, and a man stepped forward. He wore a midnight blue robe, dotted with stars and moons that shimmered and moved like the night sky itself. He was an old, undoubtedly so, with silver hair so long that it joined his beard, which also moved down to the centre of his chest.

The old man, whoever he was, didn't move as Harry's next attack, a blade of force that would rip into his flesh, sped forward. It turned out that he didn't need to, for that attack simply evaporated as other had.

"Please, Mr Potter-"

Before he could finish, Harry sent a third attack—not at him, but at the floor next to him.

The man's arm moved with unnatural speed, seemingly snatching the attack from the air with no consequence. Before Harry could attack again, the man waved his hand at him too, and his limbs were suddenly locked into place, a terrifying claustrophobia descending upon him.

"This is Albus Dumbledore," Fury said. He sounded merely annoyed, rather than terrified as Harry was at the man who had just appeared from nowhere and handled all of their attacks without the slightest effort. "He's the headmaster of the British magic school."

That should have made Harry feel less scared, but it did not—not at all. If this was how easily a _headmaster_ could handle him and Fury at the same time, what would a wizard soldier be able to do? What would a wizard _assassin_ be able to do? At the same time as the fear, came the anticipation. Was this what Harry would be able to become? He could see why SHIELD didn't want to anger wizards.

Dumbledore waved his wand and Harry was released from whatever he had just done. "My dearest apologies," Dumbledore said, though his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "As Director Fury said, I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry chose to ignore the ridiculous name—for a few minutes, at least. "Pleased to meet you," he said, not quite sure whether or not he was lying. On one hand, there was the terrifying revelation that wizards—or so they called themselves—were real, and could apparently dominate any fight against humans. On the other hand, there was the realisation that wizards were real, and he was one.

"As am I."

Dumbledore reached forward to shake Harry's hand, and he took it. Offending the wizard didn't seem like a good idea. In the same instant, Harry looked up into Dumbledore's eyes, trying to get a read. There was nothing. It wasn't like Fury where he could sense the presence of emotions; he literally could not sense any at all.

"So will I be attending this school of yours?" Harry asked. He continued staring into Dumbledore's eyes, trying to get a read on him.

"Most do not learn to do that without training, Mr Potter," came Dumbledore's voice, startling him from his staring. "And fear not: term doesn't start for over a month, by which point I hope will be capable of making your own decision.

How had he known? No one ever knew. "I-"

"We can discuss it later," Dumbledore interrupted. "For now, you must gather your belongings; we shall depart soon."

Harry nodded to Fury and then Dumbledore, and then got to his feet. The last thing he saw before he left the room was Dumbledore turning his gaze upon Fury, his eyes suddenly turning from warm seas of blue to icy glaciers.

With that sight, he rapidly retreated. First, he went to the mess hall, but neither Hawkeye nor Natasha were there. In a slight hurry, he moved over to the combat training room that he and Natasha used, and then over to the shooting range. It was a large room, with targets set up at various distances from the shooters. Natasha and Hawkeye were, of course, both aiming at the ones furthest away, one with a bow and one with a gun. Neither of them seemed to be getting anything except bull's-eyes.

Harry made his way over to them and stopped. Even if he was in a hurry, it wouldn't be wise to interrupt them whilst they were shooting. Instead, he glanced at the gun rack, and then at the CCTV camera. He was sure that SHIELD wouldn't mind if he borrowed a few more guns, especially if he was a wizard. Dumbledore still had one of his pistols, so he needed to replace that. He still had two other guns and four knives on his person, also courtesy of SHIELD, but a few more wouldn't hurt.

By the time Natasha and Clint had finished, Harry had safely loaded a submachine gun and a few magazines into a duffel bag he had also decided to "borrow." You could never be too careful, after all.

"Natasha," he said, approaching her. "I've got to leave for a while—I don't know how long."

"Where?" A flash of a frown passed over Natasha's face.

"On a mission," Harry said, and could immediately tell that Natasha knew it was a lie. "The truth is far less believable, so you're just going to have to believe that for now."

Somehow, he almost didn't like lying to Natasha. It struck him that she was probably the only friend he had ever had. Would he miss her? He had no idea.

He decided not to go for a hug or anything of the like. As far as he was aware, friends didn't do that, and Natasha would likely think he was just taking the opportunity to grope her. So he simply smiled and walked away from his only friend, the elite seductress and assassin. Maybe he would be able to make normal friends with wizards. He took a moment to contemplate their odd names and sense of dress. Probably not, then.

With a thousand thoughts in his mind, Harry walked back towards Fury's office, his belongings in his bag atop his new weapons. He went to knock on the door, but it swung aside before he had the chance.

Dumbledore was still standing, and Fury's gun was still floating. The hostility in the air was practically tangible. Dumbledore's expression lit up as he looked at Harry. He looked to the duffel bag Harry was carrying. "Are those all of your belongings?"

"Yeah." Perhaps it was risky. Perhaps it was crazy. Perhaps it would be the best choice he would ever make. It might give him the power to escape from under the clutches of SHIELD permanently—and who was he to deny a chance at that?

A slight frown passed across Dumbledore's face, but a moment later he was once again smiling.

"Are you ready to leave then?" Dumbledore said, with a final disdainful glance at Fury.

Harry nodded and turned towards the door, but Dumbledore halted him. "There is no need for that, Mr Potter. I have a Portkey," he said, producing a woollen sock from his pocket.

Harry could handle animated robes showing a moving night sky—if you could make them, then why not?! The names "Hogwarts" and "Dumbledore" were both ridiculous, but might've been a result of wizards having a whole different culture. But this…

"Mr Dumbledore, what do you plan on doing with that sock?" he said, trying his best to sound polite, as not to annoy the powerful and perhaps insane wizard.

Dumbledore looked slightly startled, and glanced down to the sock. "Oh, it is what you muggles call a…teleportation device, if I recall correctly."

It only took Harry a moment to figure out what muggles might be; it made sense that wizards might want to think of themselves as humans, and thus have a term to refer to non-wizards. There was still one thing he didn't understand, however.

"Why the hell is it a sock?"

"Oh," Dumbledore said. "Anything can be a Portkey—providing you can make them, of course, which I can." He offered out the sock—the _Portkey,_ Harry reminded himself—and Harry grabbed it. "Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans," Dumbledore suddenly said.

For a moment, Harry had the time to be confused, and then a sharp yanking emerged in his navel, and the world was suddenly snatched from under his feet and he was spinning through a vortex of colour. It seemed to be an eternity before the sensation stopped, and Harry only just managed to land on his feet, rolling to lessen the impact.

And then he threw up all over the floor.

 **A/N: Fear not, for this is far from the last of SHIELD you are going to be seeing. Tell me what you thought.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"I apologise for all of that Portkey business," Dumbledore said, though he sounded more amused than apologetic. "After using them for over a century, I am quite accustomed to them. I forget that others are not, and should've probably warned you for your first time—especially since it was international."

For a moment, Harry was startled by Dumbledore's apparent age of a hundred-plus, but it was only to be expected from people who could use superpowers—he refused to acknowledge it as magic. And then he moved onto glaring at Dumbledore. Whilst Dumbledore had cleared the vomit off of his shoes with a wave of his hand, _he_ was the one who had caused him to puke in the first place.

The street they were on appeared completely normal. From the lack of sunshine in summer and the cars driving on the left, Harry guessed they were in England. It was incredibly ordinary, no different than any other London street Harry had seen. Surely wizards weren't like this? All were wearing normal clothes—the complete opposite of Dumbledore's.

"I thought it would be…different," Harry said, glancing around.

Dumbledore looked Harry in the eyes and realisation seemed to strike him. "Oh, you misunderstand," he said. "These people aren't wizards." He gestured to a building across the street, an apparent pub, looking quite dilapidated. Above the door a sign read, _The Leaky Cauldron._ "That is a wizarding pub, however, and from there we can access the wizarding world."

Harry suddenly felt like a complete and utter imbecile. Normally, he was far more perceptive; that had probably been a result of the disorientation caused by Portkey-travel. "Ah, of course. I'm just feeling a bit ill."

The people around them were looking at them oddly, probably due to both of their odd outfits. Harry hadn't foreseen to change out of his black combat pants and jacket emblazoned with the SHIELD logo upon the breast. There wasn't exactly a need to explain how Dumbledore's clothes could be perceived as odd.

"Let us make haste," Dumbledore said. "There is no need for us to stay out here for so long."

Together, they crossed the street, but paused outside the door of the pub. Dumbledore took a stick of knotted wood from somewhere, too fast for Harry to see, and pointed at himself. Harry didn't have time to question what Dumbledore was doing and what the stick was before Dumbledore's features began to shift, his beard and hair retreating until he was left with only a brown goatee. His wrinkles distorted before shifting into smooth skin, and his facial features moved around.

Harry could only stand stunned as Dumbledore became an appearingly middle-aged man, with his blue eyes the only recognisable feature. "What?" he muttered. "How the hell…?"

Dumbledore smiled, eyes dancing with an almost innocent excitement. "Magic, my boy. Magic." And then he turned his stick towards Harry. "Do you mind?" he asked.

Still stunned, Harry only shook his head. Dumbledore waved his wand and Harry's hair tickled at his forehead, but there was nothing else. "Why are you doing this?" Harry said.

"For disguises, as I'm sure you can tell. For me, because I am rather recognisable and because I don't want to draw any attention."

"What about me?" Harry glanced at his reflection in a murky window. "All you did was grow my hair." Not that being able to grow people's hair was _at all_ strange.

"Your scar, my boy." Dumbledore offered no further elaboration, and Harry was beginning to suspect he was just trying to be mysterious. Dumbledore waved his stick—Harry had now decided it was a wand—over himself, and his robes turned dark blue. Once again, he aimed his wand at Harry but instead of changing his clothes, he conjured a robe over the top, also dark blue.

Following Dumbledore, Harry entered the pub. Inside was something closer to what he had expected. Wizards—and witches, he supposed, given Hogwarts' title—roamed the room, dressed in a cloaks and robes. Classical music played from an unidentified source, and most people were either waving their wands or drinking alcoholic-looking substances.

A few people seemed to be doing magic, but Harry was fairly sure that after witnessing Dumbledore practically shape shift and conjure things from mid-air, he couldn't be surprised. That was changed as he witnessed someone turn a cup into a mouse.

Harry decided not to ask Dumbledore about that, or much else for that matter, fearing answer along the lines of, "Magic, my boy. Magic." Hopefully, in the wizarding world, there would be books, or maybe a method to download the knowledge directly to his head; they wouldn't be as vague as Dumbledore—or he hoped they wouldn't, at least.

Dumbledore waved at the barman, and they proceeded past him without a remark. They walked through a door and emerged into a…back alley—and a rather dilapidated one, at that. The walls were made of dirty bricks that had once been red, but were now stained brown.

Harry was about to enquire as to whether or not Dumbledore was messing with him, when said man stepped forward, producing his wand from nowhere once again. "Remember this, Harry," he said, tapping his wand across certain bricks upon the wall without even looking.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then a slow rumbling began, and the bricks began to fold back, steadily forming a hole—an entrance. For what must've been the tenth time, Harry found himself gaping in surprise.

The hole revealed a street, and if not for the sky being the same colour, Harry would have thought that they had somehow been transported to another world. The street was paved with old-fashioned cobbles and its wideness and direction seemed to change with no pattern whatsoever. At some points, a truck would've been able to get through, and at others even the smallest car might've struggled.

Shops and stalls lined either side of the street, selling objects that quite frankly belonged in fantasy. Wizards and witches vended their products with great enthusiasm, crying out for people to buy their eye of newt and potions of healing for sickles and knuts and galleons, which Harry assumed were the wizarding currencies.

When he looked back at Dumbledore, Harry saw that he was staring at him, something foreign on his face, almost resembling regret. A moment later, the expression was gone.

"You hide your excitement and curiosity well, but I can see it," Dumbledore said, looking him in the eye. "I'd forgotten what it's like to see a child face light up as they are introduced to the wizarding world."

Harry eyed him for a moment before nodding slightly and turning back towards the street. "Why are we here?"

Dumbledore smiled. "To get your school supplies, of course."

Harry's heart stopped for a moment. He was going to have to go to _school._ Well, he would if he wanted more than a month to study magic. He was going to have to hang out around _children._ That would be truly horrific—especially if he too was supposed to act like a child. He resisted the urge to groan.

"What are we getting first?" he asked. Those thoughts could wait for later.

"The most vital part of wizardry, of course," Dumbledore said with all of his usual mystery. "The wand…"

While they walked towards the wand shop— _Ollivander's_ , as Dumbledore said—Dumbledore pointed out all of the shops they would visit afterwards. Knockturn Alley, the street running perpendicular to the one they were in, Diagon Alley, was apparently a black market which Harry should avoid. He momentarily questioned the competency of wizarding authorities if that was able to exist so obviously, and then made a note to visit it later, when he was alone.

It wasn't long before they arrived outside _Ollivander's_ , and Dumbledore motioned for Harry to go in first. So he entered the grimy shop with only a little hesitation. It was lucky that he saw the man hidden in the shadows as he entered, or else Harry would have shot him as he came out.

"Hello, Albus," the man—apparently Ollivander—said, somehow seeing through Dumbledore's disguise. He turned to Harry. "Hello, Mr Potter."

Even though he was yet to shoot the man, this still put Harry on edge, and he began to gather his power, just in case.

Ollivander eyed him. "There will be no need for that, Mr Potter."

Harry did his best to hide his surprise. Could all wizards do this? Harry had spoken to two wizards so far and both had shown no doubt that they could dispatch him with ease. He allowed the power to disperse. If it came to a conflict, a gun would be a much better option, rather than a power it seemed he was entirely unfamiliar with.

Tape measures floated around Harry, measuring proportions that he was fairly sure weren't relevant to using a wand. What were wands for anyway? Dumbledore hadn't used one except for changing his face and entering the alley.

"What's your wand hand?" Ollivander asked.

Hesitance bit at Harry. Hydra had forced him to become ambidextrous, but he supposed that he might as well go with his original dominant hand. "Right," he said. After a moment, he added, "I can use my left one as well, if that helps."

Ollivander didn't speak, only hummed. He went back to browse through the slender, black boxes that no doubt contained wands, and Harry frowned in impatience.

A few minutes later, Ollivander finally handed Harry a wand. Before he could even move it, it was snatched away and replaced with another. This one promptly shot flames from the tip. It was two wands and much destruction later when Ollivander suddenly appeared to be resigned.

He ambled into the back of the shop, and Harry looked back at Dumbledore, who had been repairing the damage with flicks of his wand, in confusion. He simply smiled back in his intentionally frustrating way.

When Ollivander returned a few minutes later, he was bearing a wand box that somehow felt different to the others. The wand inside was a slender stick of light brown with a handle of slightly darker wood. In total, the thing must've been just under a foot in length.

As it met Harry's hand, a shower of black and white sparks sprayed out into the air. A feeling of both warmth and coldness flowed through him, bringing a comforting warmth with it. The wand seemed to sing, and a beautiful birdsong flowed through the air.

Dumbledore stared at Ollivander expectantly, and he nodded.

"This," Ollivander said, pointing at the wand in Harry's hand, "is eleven inches of holly wood, with a phoenix feather in the centre." Dumbledore and him once again exchanged a glance, and Dumbledore was the one to nod this time. Ollivander licked his lips. "The feather is taken from the same phoenix that provided the feather within the wand of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Please, Garrick," Dumbledore said. "Now he has returned, it is the most vital time of all not to show him fear."

"Who?" Harry asked, confused.

Dumbledore stared into his eyes and grimaced. "Dark Lord Voldemort, the one who killed your parents and gave you that scar almost fourteen years ago. When he tried to kill you, his curse backfired and struck him down instead, marking you with that scar upon your forehead which has made you a messiah to so many. Using Dark magic, he remained alive—if you can call it that; he was more of a wraith—and just at the start of this summer he returned, using old Dark magic in order to resurrect himself."

"Albus-" Ollivander tried to get in, but Dumbledore didn't stop.

"Everyone one as powerful and knowledgeable as you refuses to speak of him and his name," Dumbledore said, "you do a disrespect to every witch and wizard who has fallen in the battle against him." He looked to Harry. "Your parents were two of these brave souls, and in order to resurrect himself, Voldemort and his followers sacrificed three other brave souls who opposed him, only a matter of weeks ago. These are only a few among a hundred of his victims." His gaze returned to Ollivander. "We must not forget that."

So that was where the scar had come from. He supposed that was why it hadn't healed, and also why Dumbledore had hidden it. The man had said it had marked him as the wizarding world's saviour, and that would mean that there would be both people who loved and hated him. If this Lord Voldemort had returned, then he and his followers would probably be trying to kill him, for revenge.

The thought was quite frankly terrifying. If this Lord Voldemort and his followers had been strong enough to oppose a society of people like Dumbledore, then Harry didn't stand a chance. He was an untrained child among a society of apparent veterans; that was both an advantage and a disadvantage.

These people were soldiers who had met Voldemort in open battle many times before, or so he drew from the look in Dumbledore's eyes. In a fair fight, Harry would defeat none of them.

But he was not a soldier. He was an assassin, forged in the fires of pain and suffering and cooled in the blood of his foes, and he did _not_ fight fairly. A wizard wouldn't disarm him if their brains were already splattered all over the floor before the fight had begun, after all.

 **A/N: Sorry if this is later than normal. I can't really remember when I last uploaded, and this was already written. I haven't been much involved with fanfiction lately, seeing as I began to play Warframe again. Anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Dumbledore's office was quite a fascinating thing—more so to someone who had only just been introduced to magic. With all the complex creations around the room, moving and mobile, silver and wood, Harry was quite sure that the room held more magic than Diagon Alley in its entirety.

A bird sat on top of a perch, steadily burning, as if that was normal. When it had had sung, it hadn't been hard for Harry to recall the song of his wand, and thus figure out it was a phoenix. Unlike his wand, however, it brought no comforting warmth, only a compressing coldness. Fawkes, Dumbledore had said the bird was called.

With how old Dumbledore—now back in his normal form— looked, Harry wasn't quite sure whether the bird had been named after Guy Fawkes, or if it was the other way around.

"So," Harry said. "I've missed four years of my magical education."

Dumbledore nodded soberly. "Term begins on the first of September, in just over a month, so you do have some time to catch up."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Four years in a month?" He could operate on four hours of sleep at the least, which would leave him with twenty hours a day. That would give him around…six hundred hours of time to study if that was all he did. Assuming school days of six hours that still only added to a hundred days' worth of schooling. Maybe if these children were complete idiots and he somehow managed to study constantly, he would have a _slight_ chance. Or, in other words, he had no chance whatsoever.

Dumbledore gave a slight shrug. "You already have an incredible affinity for magic," he said. "The vast majority of children are not able to purposefully control their magic without a wand. Out of these children, the one who I have seen do it the most was Lord Voldemort, and your ability is his tenfold, though it is focused in different areas—or so I assume from your performance at the SHIELD base."

There was no point in lying if not doing so would help progress his magical knowledge—even if Harry didn't trust Dumbledore. "I could have continued doing that for a while; that was only a small amount of my power."

"And concerning what you did when you looked into my eyes?"

"All I can do is sense vague emotions," Harry said, "and it doesn't work on some people."

Dumbledore frowned, nodding. "I would have predicted it to be the other way around, with you being strong where mental magic is concerned, and not so strong in the physical aspect."

"Why?"

With a sigh, Dumbledore leaned far back into his chair. "You must understand, Harry, that I was not planning on telling you these things until you were much older, and much more experienced in matters of magic. It irritates me greatly to give you such a great burden mere hours after your introduction to our world." He sighed again. "I only tell you this due to your…" He coughed. "… _unique_ upbringing."

"What?"

"Something of Lord Voldemort lies within you, Harry. The same Dark magic that he used for his false immortality, resulted in his soul being ripped to pieces, and one of those pieces lies within" –he pointed at Harry's forehead—"that scar."

Harry slowly nodded. "I'm going to assume that child Voldemort was good at mental magic, and you thought I would be too."

Dumbledore nodded. "It is a good sign; it means the fragment of him doesn't have much influence over you."

A sigh heaved from Harry. He had fought his way from Hydra's control, was planning or bargaining his way out of SHIELDs, and now there was possibly a being inside his _head._ "Why did Voldemort fail anyway? You made him out as some ultra-powerful guy who slaughtered hundreds, yet he falls to a baby?"

"To be straight forward, I do not know, but I do have multiple theories—three, in fact, all involving old and near ineffable magic. The first is your mother's love and sacrifice. The second is Voldemort breaking a promise. And the third…" Dumbledore hesitated. "…there is a prophecy."

Harry blinked. The first two reasons sounded completely idiotic; that said, so did the third, but if prophecy actually existed… "As in the crystal ball fortune-telling?"

"A muggle perversion of true divination, but, essentially, yes." Dumbledore got to his feet. "Come, Harry." He moved over to a door in the corner, holding a vial of silver liquid. The doors opened to reveal a golden bowl sat upon a pillar of a matching colour; both pillar and bowl were carved with strange symbols and runes. As the liquid was poured into the bowl, it swirled around, a storming ocean for a quick moment. And then it was calm and still.

"Fall into it, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry looked to him, and then to the bowl, and then to him again. "How do you suggest I fall into a bowl?"

"Not a bowl, a pensieve."

Harry stared at Dumbledore, and said, "Thanks for elaborating on how I fall in."

Dumbledore smiled in his usual deliberately mysterious way. "Just lean into it."

Well, if Dumbledore wanted to kill him, he would have done it a hundred times over, so without further question, Harry leaned forward and fell into the bowl— _pensieve,_ he reminded himself _._

The world tipped around him, and he rushed through silver light for a moment before reality came crashing back and he was standing on the floor once again. It took him only a moment to get his pistol drawn and up as he glanced around the room. He appeared to be in a pub filled with wizards, though it definitely wasn't the Leaky Cauldron.

No one appeared to have noticed his sudden appearance, and when he tapped someone on the shoulder, his hand passed straight through. What the hell was going on? Harry glanced around the room, and then saw Dumbledore. Well, the person looked exactly like Dumbledore, though his hair and beard were a bit shorter, and he had a tiny amount less wrinkles.

Across the table from him was a woman with frizzy, blonde hair. Thick glasses sat upon her face, and she, like Dumbledore, wore a robe. As Harry approached, he noticed she smelled heavily of some kind of herbal smoke. Her and Dumbledore appeared to be having a conversation, yet as Harry approached, she sat bolt upright.

Her eyes, already slightly mad, glazed over with pure insanity as she gazed upon something she could not comprehend. From her mouth came, " _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

Harry had no time to do anything but glance at the horrified expression on Dumbledore's face before he found himself drifting upwards, and then through the ceiling. He was suddenly standing on solid ground once again, and staggered backwards a few steps before impacting the wall and slumping to the floor.

Dumbledore offered him a hand and he ignored it on instinct; Agent Smith had tricked him like that a few too many times. His head span as he got to his feet, and he staggered back to his chair. "Prophecy indeed," he muttered. He looked up at Dumbledore. "Are you sure it's me?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Almost certain. Your parents defied him three times. You were born at the end of July." He smiled. "Happy birthday for a week ago, by the way."

Harry started in surprise. He hadn't ever had anyone say that to him. "Thanks," he said.

"Anyway, carrying on; there was another who fit the aforementioned terms, but unlike you, he was not marked as an equal."

Harry nodded. "The scar," he said. "But I'm nowhere near his equal."

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, we're going to have to fix that."

* * *

 _"_ _Accio,"_ Harry said, pointing his wand at a book. It flew across the room, landing in his outstretched hand. He threw it back, and whilst it was in mid-air, thought, _Accio._ Once again, the book met his hand a second later.

It had been two weeks since Harry had been introduced to magic, and he had found that spells that involved pure force came incredibly easy to him, a result of already having used variations of them for around seven years. With an incantation, wand, and wand movement, using his power was a lot easier. It didn't seem to actually require any energy; rather than taking something from within him like wandless magic, wand magic seemed to simply channel an outer energy—magic—through the wand.

Harry agreed with Dumbledore's theory that the source of his wandless magic was the piece of Lord Voldemort—Dumbledore wasn't exactly likely to be wrong. He also theorised that the reason wandless magic tired him out was that Voldemort's piece of soul was an ineffective focus, or something of the like, so it actually required a physical effort on his part as well. Admittedly, he knew next to nothing about magic, so he could be completely wrong, but he found it a likely explanation for his seemingly natural affinity.

Harry had decided to skim over the theory of all of the first-year classes before he attempted any spells. None had been very hard to understand—that was probably because they had been designed for eleven-year-olds, which Harry was decidedly smarter than.

He had found that spells that involved bringing something like fire or water into existence, such as _Incendio_ and _Aguamenti,_ weren't as easy as the telekinesis-based spells, but still simpler than the ones that involved sending forth bolts of light that had different effects, like _Stupefy_ , the Stunning Spell, which rendered its target unconscious.

What was more difficult than both was Transfiguration. Well, it wasn't exactly hard to do; it was just hard to do _fast,_ which made it useless in a fight and therefore near useless to Harry.

After all, he highly doubted that someone as powerful as Lord Voldemort was going to wait around for a few seconds while Harry changed matches into needles. It would probably be wiser to bring his own needles, should he ever need to use them to defeat Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort apparently wasn't as powerful as he had formerly thought. Apparently Dumbledore was not only a simple headmaster, but commonly referred to as the world's most powerful wizard. Voldemort was supposed to be near his level, but not quite there. Whilst still formidable, that was still a lot less scary than the massive and godly levels of power that Harry had been imagining.

Still, Lord Voldemort had managed to escape death somehow, and that was quite impressive, or so Harry thought. He hadn't had time to look over his only history textbook in detail, so for all he knew, resurrection was something any wizard could pull off.

Realistically, Harry was fairly sure that it would be nigh-on impossible for him to defeat Voldemort using magic without a stroke of luck a few miles wide. That didn't mean he wouldn't try to improve at it, however. Maybe he would stand a chance if he used other things in combination with magic. Then again, he was fairly sure that a bullet wouldn't kill an immortal wizard—thus the adjective, "immortal."

Dumbledore had been rather secretive on the subject of _how_ Voldemort had become immortal, citing that he was "researching on the matter." Harry didn't trust that was entirely true. After all, what he had seen of Dumbledore, and what he had read of him were two very different things. He was a seasoned liar, undoubtedly, and Harry had no idea what might've been concealed behind those twinkling, blue eyes of his—all he knew was to not look into them.

Magic, it seemed, had brought with it many new challenges, the threat of Voldemort's plans and Dumbledore's plotting alike. But, hopefully, in due time, it would also bring solutions to those challenges, as well as ones for the other problems that plagued Harry's mind.

He had to ensure SHIELD had no leverage over him, and one other thing had been weighing down upon him for some time, a persistent and unsettling feeling buried in some dark corner of his conscious. It warned that something was awfully, awfully wrong, that Harry was being in some way deceived.

Where had it come from, he didn't know. He did suppose, though, that the best place to start looking would be where it had all begun. Something told him that Hydra wasn't completely gone. After all, if you cut off one head, two would grow back. This time, he didn't plan on cutting of its head. He planned on turning it to ash.

 **A/N: So, I'm sure you can tell by now that Harry isn't going to be content to just sit at Hogwarts. Anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The world twisted and turned, becoming nothing but spinning colour and ever-increasing levels of nausea. And then Harry was suddenly landing upon solid ground, bending his knees as not to fall. This time, he managed to avoid throwing up the contents of his lunch, a great improvement from his first Portkey ride. A necessary one, too, seeing as he didn't have Dumbledore to clean up the mess.

With a groan, Harry stood to his full height and gazed around his destination, an alleyway, apparently, that he knew to be in Washington.

He walked to the end and into the daylight. Across the street sat an inconspicuous and grey block of a building. Though he had never seen it from the outside, Harry knew it was the base in which he had spent all of his time with SHIELD, with a sprawl of tunnels underneath it that spanned for miles and miles. Well, it would be if Dumbledore had gotten the place correct.

Harry glanced down to the multi-coloured sock in his hand, a Portkey. Somehow, he wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore proved to be _slightly_ unreliable. After spending the last two weeks in Hogwarts with only him for company, he was fairly sure that the man was either insane, or a genius. Probably both.

Either way, he most likely had sent Harry to the correct place this time. He was trying to gain Harry's trust, after all. Harry had told him that he wanted to visit some of his "friends" at SHIELD. What he had really come for, however, was far from that. No, this base extended underground for miles and miles, and in his time there, he had learnt that it held many a secret, a few of which could be useful to him.

As some civilians crossed the road, Harry joined them, aware that there were probably no less than a dozen cameras aimed at him, a few snipers too, probably, sitting atop the roof of the building or peeking out through shaded windows. He ignored them. They wouldn't shoot him—probably not, anyway.

Nonetheless, he found old instincts to be kicking in as he moved in inconspicuously between crowds and clusters of people, as to deter anyone from firing upon him. It went against his better judgement to be out in the open in front of one of the main bases of the organisation he had hidden from for so long.

The glass doors slid open as Harry approached, and it wasn't hard to guess that he was somehow being screened for weapons. The lobby didn't appear to be a government base—not at first glance, at least. You only needed to peek a bit beneath the surface, and suddenly it would become crystal clear that this place was not normal.

Firstly, there were the guards, clad in suits. However, they might try, they couldn't _quite_ conceal the bulge of the pistols under their blazers or their eyes, too surveying and calculating for any ordinary security guard.

There were too many doors disguised as supply cupboards, Harry noted. They were probably to allow the _other_ guards—the real firepower, wearing full body armour and toting submachine guns and assault rifles—to enter the room without disrupting the escape of any other agents.

It took Harry but a second to pick up on these things, about same amount of time it would take anyone else trained by SHIELD or Hydra. If they got to this point, they already knew it was a base anyway. This place wasn't exactly the most closely guarded of secrets and it didn't need to be, for it was a fortress.

And that was why Harry wasn't carrying out his plan via the method of a full-out assault. Telekinesis, a few pistols, and an extremely limited arsenal of spells weren't enough for him to take down ten SHIELD agents, let alone two hundred odd.

Harry moved over to the counter where the apparent receptionist stood, overly aware of how loudly his shoes sounded against the marble floor. Walking silently would look suspicious, though—not that he didn't already look suspicious. As far as he knew, fifteen-year-olds weren't frequent visitors to SHIELD bases, especially ones carrying various weapons about their person.

"Good morning, sir," the receptionist said, her smile plastic. "Do you have an appointment?"

Cameras were no doubt staring upon Harry right now, and had already scanned his face and cross-referenced him against the system. SHIELD already knew who he was, and this was just to delay him while they did...something. Or there was some secret code that he didn't know.

"No," Harry said, "but I know this is a SHIELD base and I would quite like to be granted entry."

The receptionist's fake smile threatened to dissolve for a moment, but eventually decided to remain plastered upon her face. She probably didn't know who Harry was, then.

"One moment, sir," she said. She turned her head downwards, and her fingers danced over the keyboard. It was concealed from Harry's view, and he could only guess what she was typing. Whatever it was, agents would undoubtedly arrive soon.

Harry's prediction was proved correct what must've been less than half a minute later, when two men in suits approached him from behind. The only way they could've been more cliché-looking was if they were wearing sunglasses.

"Would you like to come with us, sir?" the one on the left said. Judging by the way his hand was resting upon the pistol handle under is jacket, it wasn't a question.

And so Harry complied, a roll of his eyes his only resistance. They walked across, one of them behind Harry and the other in front. They passed through a door marked "Staff Only." What appeared to be a waiting room greeted them, light spilling in through a frosted glass window. They moved through it and into a corridor, pristine and white and about ten metres in length.

In front of Harry was what appeared to be a metal detector, though it was probably much more. They had most likely passed through half a dozen ordinary ones already. One of the men signalled Harry through and he obeyed. The other man walked to a screen as Harry passed through and the detector beeped.

"Your weapons, please," the man at the screen said.

Harry smiled. "It's almost as if you don't trust me."

"It's protocol."

At the end of the corridor, two men clad in black clothing and body armour entered, each carrying assault rifles. Harry decided to comply. He reached under his jacket and took one gun from its holster, placing it in the offered tray. The one from his waist followed a moment later. Next, he reached down his right trouser leg and unsheathed the knife that sat there, and then the he took out the other knives, one from his the inside of his jacket and the other from his left ankle.

He had decided to forgo any further weapons, lest SHIELD decided not to give them back. It would also probably look dodgy if he wandered in with an MP5 slung across his chest.

"You're free to go through," the man at the scanner said.

Harry smiled and nodded, resisting the urge to touch his sleeve and ensure that his wand was still there. There had been the chance that the magic would screw with the sensors too much. If it appeared to be a signal disruptor, it would likely result in its confiscation.

The men at the end of the corridor stayed still and silent as Harry passed, staring at him through their goggles. It was almost unnerving how similar to Hydra SHIELD was, and Harry found himself unintentionally gathering his power around his hands, ready to combat any attack on his person.

The door slid open with barely a hiss, revealing the room beyond, the same white as the corridor. Harry glanced at the door as he passed through. It was steel, over an inch thick. And that was another reason why Harry wasn't carrying out an assault on the base…

Two further guards stood on this side of the doorway. Harry was beginning to wonder how SHIELD managed to maintain any secrecy whatsoever with so much manpower around. He supposed that a lot of these people had no idea that they were working for SHIELD, rather than the CIA or the military or something of the like.

The two men in suits from before followed Harry through the door, resuming their former positions as they lead him through the base. They moved down the corridor, and then another after that. Eventually, they reached an elevator, one of the men tapping in a code and scanning a card against a lock.

Harry and the men entered as the doors opened, and then closed a mere second later, leaving them trapped in a metal box. Rapidly, it descended. Harry wasn't able to calculate what speed they were moving at, but he counted it to be about half a minute's journey.

When they reached the bottom, the doors slid open once again. Rather predictably, two guards waited outside. The two men in suits remained in the elevator, and didn't say a word as the doors closed and it ascended. One of the guards gestured Harry forward, and he complied.

The door at the end of the short corridor was emblazoned with an eagle in a circle. This was the actual SHIELD part, then. Harry, having been brought in unconscious and leaving through Portkey, hadn't seen any part of the base other than what lay behind that door. He glanced up to the security camera, and the door hissed open.

Beyond was yet _another_ short corridor and Harry was starting to feel that SHIELD was perhaps a _little_ too obsessed with security. Then again, this was where they kept a wealth of information from the days when paper was the best thing to use. Most of the information wasn't important, albeit, but some still had its purpose.

Harry walked down the long corridor, and, once again, the door slid open. As he saw what was inside, Harry smiled, the tension in his body fading slightly as he drew his power back into his hands.

He stood on a balcony, overlooking a large and high-ceilinged room milling with agents carrying files from computer terminal to computer terminal. While he had not seen this part, having been confined to only the living quarters and training rooms, this was clearly an actual part of SHIELD, and they hadn't decided to kill him.

Someone approached Harry on his left, their footsteps only slightly audible against the chatter from below.

"Back so soon?" The voice was Natasha's; she had been sent to babysit him, then. Good.

Without turning, Harry nodded towards a pair of guards carrying assault rifles. "Couldn't help it, what with the friendly atmosphere and all."

Natasha snorted. "And I work for SHIELD because of the great dental plan."

"Do I get one?" Harry asked. "And on a similar note, when do I get my pay check."

One of Natasha's eyebrows quirked upwards. "I believe you'd have to ask Fury that, though he isn't here for the large majority of the time," she said. "Now I'm just wondering why you're here. Fury said your leave would be indefinite, and I doubt you're meant to be back already."

"Would you believe me if I said I was?"

"No."

"Thought so," Harry said. He turned from Natasha, leaning against the railing and staring over the room below.

Natasha wandered up beside him and stared at him. "So what _are_ you here for?"

A shiver of reluctance threatened to crawl up Harry's spine, but he quickly banished it. He didn't like to ask others for aid, but now, it was his only option. "I need your help."

Natasha cocked her head to the side. "With what?"

An explosive sigh forced its way from Harry. "Well," he said, "I would ask for a promise of secrecy, but those don't tend to mean much in our kind of business. So all I ask is that you hear me out. Firstly, you have to understand that I have no one else to turn to—not that you wouldn't be the one I would've turned to in this case."

Nodding, Natasha said, "That's nice and all, but do you have a point?"

"Yes," Harry said insistently. "It's just that flattery works on most people. And I am telling the truth about you being the person who I would trust most in this instance because you'll understand me the most." He sighed. "I need to access files on Hydra agents."

"Hydra is gone," Natasha said, frowning.

Harry snorted. "I'm fairly sure that's what SHIELD used to say before they re-discovered their existence."

"Fair point," Natasha said. "I understand, but—"

"Please, Natasha. I know that you know what I'm feeling. If there was even a _chance_ that the people who had ripped away your childhood and made you an assassin still existed, you would want to destroy them, to kill every last one of them."

Natasha bit down on her lip. Harry had no idea of knowing whether or not it was a genuine response. Nonetheless, he powered onwards. "Please," he said. "You know that I can't do this without you."

 _Probably_ not, that was, but the risk would be much lower of failure would be much lower with Natasha's assistance.

"All I need you to do is handle the cameras and cover for me if anyone asks where I was."

After a moment of silence, Natasha finally nodded.

Harry smiled. "I assume you actually know how to disable the security cameras? Or put them on a loop or something? "

"Of course," Natasha said. "Don't doubt my expertise."

* * *

"Are you _sure_ this is going to work?" Harry fiddled with his wireless, concealed earpiece, ensuring that it wouldn't fall out.

"Relax." Natasha's voice came through the earpiece with only a slight distortion. "This is my job."

"Do you normally go up against SHIELD?"

Natasha snorted. "Not anymore. Used to, though."

The agents who passed Harry occasionally spared him a glance, though didn't appear too interested in him. Most had probably seen him during the time he had been here before. Nonetheless, he was cautious.

"Ready?" Harry glanced down at his watch; he wouldn't have much time.

"Let's go."

Pushing himself from the wall, Harry turned the corner and walked towards the door at the end of the corridor. Simultaneously, Natasha moved from a door halfway down the corridor. She walked slightly faster than Harry and he was five metres behind her when she made it to the end of the corridor.

One moment she was normal, her expression the cold mask—or perhaps not a mask—that she normally wore. And the next, she was completely different, all smiles and flirty touches. When Natasha said she was good at her job, she most definitely wasn't lying.

There was only one guard looking over the whole of the corridor, thank God. Probably because SHIELD didn't want too much manpower inside this part of the base, and these files weren't exactly important. In fact, if a SHIELD agent wanted their hands on them, it would likely be easier to just get them from a computer. And so, for most, their usefulness had long since expired. Not for Harry.

The guard, trained by SHIELD might he be, didn't take long to be bent to Natasha's will and be drawn a few metres from the door. Harry passed him casually, sparing only a glance to the set of keys—not key cards, he noted—at his waist. He probably didn't have the key to this door, anyway.

Harry slid his wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the lock. _"Alohomora,"_ he whispered.

The door clicked open from the unlocking spell and Harry slipped in, thanking God that it was old-fashioned rather than electric. There was only one camera, sitting high on the wall. Harry ignored it: Natasha would destroy any footage later.

Filing cabinets lined each wall, one labelled, "Hydra." Apparently SHIELD's lack of security consciousness extended inside, as well. The organisation had most likely only just begun when this had been made, and no one had touched it in years, as evidenced by the thick layers of dust sitting upon everything.

Harry drew his wand from his sleeve and focused. _"Scourgify,"_ he said, flicking his wand. It was a cleaning spell, and a rather simple one at that. Nonetheless, it did its job, and after a few goes of it, Harry had cleared away most of the rooms dust. He slipped a pair of gloves from one of his pockets and moved over to the filing cabinet.

 _"Alohomora,"_ he said, waving his wand, and the lock clicked open. Even though he had only been using it for a few weeks, magic had already proven itself extremely useful to Harry. He opened the top draw. A short stack of documents greeted him.

Harry glanced over the titles of a few, but didn't have time to look into them in any further depth, as much as he would've liked to. He put the files down, separating one from the others.

Casting his wand over the single one, he said, _"Geminio."_

For a moment, the file glowed, and then a copy of it materialised next to it. Harry might not have mastered the Copying Charm yet, but it would be good enough. He set to work on duplicating all of the other folders.

"We have a problem," Natasha said, her voice coming through Harry's earpiece and slightly startling him.

Harry's heart raced. He couldn't afford to fail. "What?"

"The guard has decided to lean against the door you're in, and there are a few other people in the corridor. You might end up waiting in there for a while."

A smile edged itself onto Harry's lips. There was an easy solution to this. "You'll still be able to wipe away any evidence on the cameras, yes?"

"Easily. They won't check the ones for this corridor unless something major happens."

"Well, I'll be going then," Harry said, replacing the files and gathering the duplicated ones in his arms.

"How?" Natasha's tone held a hint of confusion, rightfully so. After all, in real life nothing was built with air vents large enough to crawl through.

"Magic." Harry reached into one of his pockets and pulled out the brightly coloured sock he had used to arrive. With a final glance around the room to make sure nothing was out of place, he said, "Sherbet lemons."

Harry's world shifted into a vortex of swirling colours, and then he was gone.

 **A/N: Sorry for not uploading last week. I honestly can't remember why I didn't upload, but it was probably something to do with the game Warframe and farming for Frost Prime. Yeah, anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Once again, Harry managed to finish his Portkey journey without vomiting _or_ falling over. Just as well, seeing as he found himself standing before a shelf of Dumbledore's magic gadgets and devices.

"Back so soon, Harry?" came Dumbledore's voice from across the room.

Harry turned, tucking the files under his jacket as he did so. "Yes, sir," he said. "My friend had to leave, and so I decided to come back." As ever, he was careful to avoid Dumbledore's gaze, lest the man see through his lies.

"Ah, of course," Dumbledore said. "Is there anything else you wanted to do?" He chuckled. "I can't imagine it's been very enjoyable for you to be cooped up in this castle for a week with no one but myself for company."

"Magic is good enough for me."

There were, of course, a thousand things Harry actually wanted to do. Most of them, however, would either look suspicious or were too unsafe for him to do without an escort. That had been why Harry had gone straight to the SHIELD base first, rather than where he wanted to go, to the Hydra base in which he had been kept originally; it would look rather odd if he asked Dumbledore to prepare him a Portkey to a location in the middle of rural Canada, the exact coordinates of which he didn't know.

Dumbledore smiled. "Indeed, it is quite a fascinating thing," he said. "How are you progressing in your studies?"

Every day, they had this discussion, with Dumbledore explaining anything that Harry did not fully understand. There weren't many things, seeing as Harry was still focusing on magic that was meant to be learnt by children much younger than him, so he occasionally used the question to direct the conversation towards more advanced—more dangerous—forms of magic.

Today, however, was not one such occasion. The files under Harry's jacket screamed for him to search through them.

"Quite fine, today," Harry said. "I've just been brushing up on some charms, mostly."

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course, of course," he said.

It was obvious to Harry what Dumbledore would ask next—it was always the same thing.

"And what of your mind?"

As odd as the question might've sounded, Harry knew what he meant. Dumbledore feared that with Voldemort and Harry being linked in both destiny and magic—as evidenced by their wands—Voldemort might somehow try to enter Harry's mind, using some variation of a complex magic he was apparently an expert in, Legilimency.

Legilimency was a magic that involved reading one's thoughts, and usually required eye contact. Harry most likely performed some weaker version of it when he read emotions. He obviously couldn't reach anyone from more than a few metres away, but who knew what Voldemort would be capable of?

"Still fine," Harry said. In fact, he was fairly sure that Dumbledore was being paranoid.

"But you've still been practising Occlumency?"

Occlumency was the counter-measure to Legilimency, involving clearing one's mind of thoughts to prevent someone from reading them or trampling through your mind. And whilst Harry was fairly sure Voldemort couldn't get him, he was still learning it. There were, after all, other wizards, albeit less dangerous ones.

"Of course," Harry said. He was now probably skilled enough to keep out less skilled attackers— trolls, for example, which apparently existed.

"Good, good."

"Well, I'll be going now," Harry said, cutting Dumbledore off before he could say anything further. "I'm feeling quite hungry." He wasn't.

"Very well." Dumbledore smiled and nodded. If he suspected anything, he wouldn't have reacted any differently.

While he wasn't actually hungry, Harry did indeed visit the kitchen before making his way to his private characters. Hogwarts was literally a castle, and there were thus a thousand places in which a spy could be. And that was _without_ thinking about the hundreds of moving paintings lurking about.

After eating a brief meal, Harry returned to his room. He made sure nothing was out of place and then placed the files on his desk and sat down in front of them. Stretching his hands, he sighed. This was going to take a while.

* * *

Breaks were for wimps, Harry had decided. He had _also_ decided that they were probably necessary if one hoped to maintain their concentration. Nonetheless, he had powered onwards, going through the documents again and again and again in search of the information he sought. He had noted down his leads, but he would need a computer and the internet if he wanted to follow up on them.

And so he went through the files again. It was probably stupid to do so, he knew, but did it anyway. He couldn't afford to miss anything.

Harry's suspicions of Hydra being shut down were far from being unfounded, as it turned out. When SHIELD had first taken Hydra down, they had allowed a number of their agents to go free, provided they operated as informants in the crime circles they were present within.

These men had left Hydra long before Harry had ever been there, but still, they would've probably been some of the first to know of Hydra's return. And so Harry would find them, and interrogate them.

There was a problem, however: these files were from well over half a century ago, and most of these men were most likely dead. Hopefully, their descendants would know something. The files, however, were rather out-dated and spoke nothing of any children, thus why Harry would have to do his research himself.

Computers didn't work in Hogwarts—no electronics did. Something to do with the heavy magical presence broke them, reduced to paperweights. Well, it was either that or some conspiracy set into action by a Hogwarts headmaster to stop wizards being influenced by muggles… Harry would admit he had briefly wondered about that before dismissing it.

Either way, it meant that if Harry sought to get anything done, he couldn't be in Hogwarts. That wasn't so bad. It meant he could avoid being forced to hang around children. But it also meant he would have to go without Dumbledore's help.

It was an easy decision, if he was honest. It would give him the ability to go wherever he wanted, to do what he wanted whenever he wanted. It would give him a brief escape from the clutches of the powerful people and organisations he was trapped between. But then there was the question as to whether or not Dumbledore would let him go.

Sure, Dumbledore had _said_ it was his choice as to what he did. Whether or not he was telling the truth was an entirely different matter.

Still, Harry had decided to risk asking him. The consequences of what might happen if he were to run away were far scarier than those he might face were Dumbledore to say no. Who knew what methods of tracking Dumbledore might have?

Harry stood to move towards the door, but then glanced at a clock on the wall. Three in the morning. He adjusted his path so that was heading towards the bed. Perhaps the conversation would be best left for the morning.

* * *

As he always did, Harry woke early the next morning. He changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and went about his exercise regime. Over the years, even after he had left Hydra, he had sustained it—well, most of it: a lot of the time, it was difficult to access a swimming pool, and he'd never exactly fancied having a swim in the Thames.

Hogwarts' lake was a completely different matter, though. Dumbledore had assured Harry that its magic freed it of any pollution, and that the giant squid was really quite friendly. Harry still hoped he was joking about there being a giant squid.

Whatever reservations Harry might've had about the man, he found it unlikely that Dumbledore would want him drowned or mauled by sharks. And so an hour after Harry's awakening found him finishing off his swim and climbing out of the water. He didn't shiver—not much anyway: summer was just pulling to an end, and Harry had faced colder conditions than this lake many a time before.

Winter hadn't been an excuse to stop training at Hydra or SHIELD, and autumn's nearing couldn't be an excuse for Harry.

He moved over to where he had left his clothes on the shore and took his wand from them.

 _"Ventus Ferno,"_ he said, pointing his wand at himself.

A hot wind blew over him, drying him near instantly and warming him. Harry couldn't help but smile. He doubted Agent Smith or anyone else at Hydra would approve. After all, how was he going to become an elite killing machine without sitting outside in the cold whilst soaked for a few hours?

After pulling on his t-shirt, Harry ran back up to the castle, climbed a few staircases—which moved, for some reason—and entered his room. He took a brief shower and glanced at the clock. It was nearing half-past-seven; that was about the time he and Dumbledore generally ate breakfast, even if it wasn't official.

Harry brushed away any nervousness before it could settle itself upon him. Dumbledore might disapprove of his request, but would probably go along with it, if he wanted to remain on Harry's good side. Then again, there was a spell for wiping memories. Hopefully, Dumbledore would be afraid to do anything like that, what with the piece of Voldemort inside Harry.

So remaining as calm as he could in these circumstances, Harry made his way out of his room and towards the Great Hall. It was a long walk, but Harry gave himself no time to doubt himself—to decide that it would be best to stay at Hogwarts and deny himself any chance at revenge.

It wasn't long before Harry reached the Great Hall, the moving staircase not having halted his progress too many times.

Dumbledore was already seated, as ever, reading a newspaper titled, _The Quibbler,_ colourful, moving images all over its cover, most of them as odd as Dumbledore himself. He looked up as Harry pushed open the massive doors.

"Ah, Harry," he said after swallowing a mouthful of toast. "Good morning."

Harry smiled. He hoped it didn't look false. "Good morning to you as well, sir."

He walked up the hall, towards the head table where Dumbledore sat. Two tables were on either side of Harry, each with a colourful flag hanging over it. There were four houses, Dumbledore had told Harry.

Gryffindor was red and gold—the house for the brave. Ravenclaw was the house for the intelligent people, their colours blue and bronze. Slytherin was silver and green, and was apparently for criminals and dark lords. Hufflepuff was black and gold, and was the house for uninteresting people, outcasts and badgers or something of the like.

Harry took a seat at the head table, on the same side as Dumbledore, seeing as though there were only seats on one side, but a few places away. For a while, both just sat and ate, silent but for the clattering of cutlery and quiet chewing. This was how it normally was, unless Harry initiated a discussion upon some magical theory. Otherwise, they left that kind of thing for later in the day.

After a while, Harry decided that he best speak now, before he managed to go back on his decision again.

"So," he said, "I've been thinking about what you said concerning me attending Hogwarts."

Dumbledore raised a bushy eyebrow.

"And I've decided that I can't," Harry said, and then quickly added, "Not at the moment, anyway."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. Even to Harry, his face was indecipherable. "May I ask why?"

"I've got a lot to catch up on, and I feel it would be easier for me to do outside of school. The exams that matter aren't until the end of the year, anyway."

Once again, Dumbledore nodded. "Very well," he said. He smiled. "As I said before, it is your choice."

A breath Harry didn't know he'd been holding escaped him, and a weight lifted itself from his shoulders; he hadn't been expecting Dumbledore to give in so easily. Perhaps Dumbledore had an ulterior motive. Perhaps he knew the argument was already lost for him.

Or perhaps he was just being a nice person.

It didn't matter, for Harry had gotten his way.

 **A/N:** **Um, yeah, sorry about not updating for a while. I honestly don't know what day it is or what the date is. I've been distracted by Battlefront and Just Cause and chocolate. Anyway, tell me what you thought. I know this might've not had much action, but I needed to get it aside so that Harry could get down to all of the interrogating and torturing and killing children and teenagers.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

With a click, the front door unlocked, and a man moved inside, cursing and stumbling as he tripped over a pair of shoes. He touched for a light switch and found it near immediately, clicking it on.

Nothing happened.

With yet another curse, he tried it a few more times. Nothing happened.

Grumbling about cheap housing and unreliable electricity, he moved through a doorway into an office and tried that light switch as well.

Once again, nothing.

He turned and was about to leave when the lamp atop his desk clicked on. Immediately, he was spinning around, readying himself for a fight and pulling a cheap revolver from his waistband.

There was no one.

"W-who's there?"

He froze as a ring of cool metal pressed itself to the back of his head.

"Just me," a voice rumbled, deep and unfamiliar—even to its owner. It sounded like two rocks grinding together. There was a spell for almost everything as it turned out, and disguise spells had been some of the first ones Harry had tried to find since he had left Hogwarts a month ago.

The man began to slowly move his right arm—the one holding the gun—but Harry wrenched the revolver from the man's hand with a flex of his mind, pressing his own gun's barrel down harder.

"Let's not try anything you won't have time to regret before I shoot you through the head, okay?" Harry said.

"O-okay, dude," the man stammered.

Harry couldn't see his face from behind, but it didn't take much to deduce that he was wide-eyed, staring after the gun that had just been stolen from him by some invisible force. Good. Fear made for a fantastic motivator, especially when it was of something you didn't understand, rather than just a weapon.

"I hear you're good with fake IDs," Harry said. "I need a passport."

"I don't know, man. I—" The man yelped as he was thrown across the room. That yelp became a cry of pain as he crashed into the wall. That cry of pain was extinguished as invisible fingers gripped his throat and wrenched him to his feet.

Harry strode forward and replaced those invisible fingers with his own. He stared up into the man's eyes and sensed a tremendous fear. That was only to be expected; he made a terrifying sight, all dressed all in black, his face under an unnatural darkness except for his eyes, which were now red and serpentine.

All the effects, including the voice, were easy to see through, providing you knew how. This man, however, was a muggle. And so he probably thought he was staring upon Satan himself.

"Listen," Harry growled. "You will do what I say, when I say, or else I will tear your head from your shoulders and jam it up your arse."

There was a spell that did that, apparently. It probably didn't work too well, though, seeing as Harry had found it in a discounted Dark Arts book he had bought from a shop in Knockturn Alley. Still, he could probably still do it.

"Okay, man. Whatever you want!"

Harry dumped him to the floor. He rooted into a pocket and found a photo of himself he had taken earlier that day. In it, his hair was blond and eyes were blue, as they currently were under his hood. It might not have been much of a disguise, but it was better than nothing. Face-rearranging Transfiguration like Dumbledore had done was far beyond him.

He flicked the photo towards the man. "Use this, and the name James Smithson," he said. "I'll be back in a few hours to collect it."

The man eyed the doorway.

Harry chuckled. "Don't even _think_ about running." He whipped a knife from his sleeve and darted forward, scoring a small cut across the man's cheek. "I have your blood, and can track you wherever you go."

There were magics that could do that. Unfortunately, Harry didn't know how to do any of them. The man didn't have to know that, though.

With a clench of his fist, Harry shattered the lamp's bulb and plunged the room into darkness. And then he was gone from the room. A few seconds later, he had left the apartment as well, sneaking out of the bathroom window.

He could've paid the man. He might've revealed where the money from the bank robbery was to SHIELD as a show of good will, but he still had some emergency stashes, some of which were in the UK. He had also discovered that his parents had left him some money in Gringotts, the goblin-ran wizarding bank.

But he found fear to be a more powerful motive than greed, especially when red-eyed, super-powered demons were involved.

Still, there was a risk that the man would try to make a run for it. That was why he was the third that Harry had performed his little act on. You could never be too careful. And he needed to be careful now. That was why he was sticking with the methods he had used for most of his life, rather than the wizarding ones.

He didn't see it going well for him if he was to try flying a few hundred miles on a broomstick without ever having ridden one before and still being incredulous at the fact that wizards _had_ broomsticks.

He might've trusted a Portkey if not for the fact he would need to be issued one by Dumbledore or the government. Both would likely wonder why he needed to go to Argentina, of all places. He doubted that there was anything he could say that wouldn't make them suspicious. From what he had seen, he might've been over-estimating the Ministry of Magic, but it was better safe than sorry.

In the month he had been away from Hogwarts, as well as greatly progressing in his magical knowledge, Harry had tracked down his first lead. The man's father had been a high-ranking Hydra agent who had been allowed by SHIELD to escape to Argentina. His name was Klaus Schmid, and judging by his criminal activity, he would know about Hydra.

And if he didn't, there were a few more people Harry had looked into, though none seemed as good an option.

Tomorrow, Harry would take a flight to Argentina, and he would hopefully move on a few week or so later to wherever his gained intelligence lead him. Now, however, was time to gather any resources he might require for his trip. Most of them, he already had; it had been quite easy to replace the weapons he had left at the SHIELD base—not that he needed them, with an array of other guns and knives and spells in his arsenal.

Still, for all he knew, it might not be convenient to return to Diagon Alley for some time, and he didn't want to have to go and find magical marketplaces in other countries—especially ones where he wasn't fluent in the language.

And so he was buying a few more spellbooks. Throughout the centuries, thousands and thousands of spells had been created. Some were taught in Hogwarts, used by almost everyone. Some were so obscure that the only one to ever use them might've been their creator. If Harry sought to become a capable wizard quickly, he would need to find the spells that suited him best.

There was another type of magic he was curious about. A few weeks ago, he had decided to go through a magical pet shop, slightly curious to see in person the creatures he had read about. They had been selling snakes—talking ones, or so Harry had thought. The lack of reaction from the other people around him said otherwise.

It hadn't taken Harry much research to discover what was going on: he understood Parseltongue, the language of snakes. He was, therefore, a Parselmouth. The trait was passed down through the line of Salazar Slytherin, a powerful wizard who had been the founder of the Slytherin house at Hogwarts.

Harry had found out that whilst the family of his father, James Potter, might be old, there was no way they had ever bred with the Slytherin line. Harry's mother was Lily Potter, whose parents were muggles.

There was only one place the Parseltongue could come from: Lord Voldemort. He was a Parselmouth and claimed to be the heir of the House of Slytherin. If there had ever been any doubt in Harry about Dumbledore's theory of there being a fragment of Voldemort in his head, it had vanished with that revelation.

Many sources speculated that there were some spells that could only be performed in Parseltongue; Harry had no idea where he could find them, but Voldemort probably did. As far as Harry knew, he and Voldemort were the only Parselmouths alive—the line of Slytherin was almost extinguished.

Perhaps Voldemort used some kind of Parseltongue magic. Perhaps that was how he had become immortal. If that was true and Harry was able to discover it, then it would give him a massive advantage, both in killing Voldemort and becoming immortal himself.

How the hell he was supposed to find out anything about it, he wasn't sure; it was just something to keep an eye out for in his travels—because it was so likely that a few spells he wasn't even sure existed but were supposed to have been created by an Englishman would turn up in anywhere but England… Then again, he was also looking in Argentina for an originally German organisation that had supposedly disappeared after World War 2.

He would burn Hydra and salt its remains before looking for any perhaps non-existent spells, he decided.

After a brief shopping trip in Knockturn Alley, Harry had everything he needed. He went back into London through the entrance in Diagon Alley and made his way back to the hotel he was currently staying in. As always, he glanced over the room, making sure that nothing had been tampered with.

Nothing had, and so he first made his way to the bathroom. He checked that his hair was still thoroughly blond; he was using a magical hair dye, not a normal one. It seemed to be better, but he didn't have complete faith in it.

Holding his eyelids open, he slowly removed the blue contact lens from each eye. These were normal. There were magical alternatives—spells, contacts and glasses alike—but whilst Harry might've been prepared to mess with his hair, he didn't want to risk damaging his eyes.

He walked back into the other room and began to pack his bag. At the bottom, in a concealed compartment, went his spying-related files and weapons. Needless to say, that would normally be a completely idiotic idea—airports tended to pick up on suitcases full of pistols and ammo and submachine guns and weapons-grade explosives.

With magic, however, everything was different. While they weren't designed to counter x-ray machines, Harry had found that there were some warding spells which would—for a day or so, at least. That would be long enough.

On top of the secret compartment went his spellbooks, and then his clothes and everything else he might need. Most things, he would be able to get once he was in Argentina. He might've been a bit out of practise when it came to Spanish, but he knew more than enough to get by.

After finishing packing, Harry went straight to bed. Tomorrow, he would wake early as he always did and go and retrieve his new passport, and then head to Heathrow Airport. From there, it would be a fourteen-hour flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. And then he would just have to track down his target and take the information from them by whatever means necessary.

Hopefully, nothing would go wrong. With his luck, however…

 **A/N: Can't remember if I uploaded last week; sorry if I didn't. Anyway, tell me what you thought. I promise we'll get to the hunting rogue Nazis next chapter.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Cool air brushed over Harry's skin, a pleasant relief from the blazing sunlight that had made up the day. Now, the moon shone down from above, but the streets weren't any less busy. No, they were still full, but the crowds were different now—considerably drunker.

Harry couldn't help but think it was a pickpocket's dream. He had spotted a few of them, too. To a trained eye, they stood out like a sore thumb. They were mostly targeting tourists; one of them, a boy no more than sixteen, had tried Harry a few days ago. He had been surprised to find a hand on his wrist and a gun to his stomach.

Harry hadn't killed him, of course. A gunshot would draw far too much attention in a crowd. No, he had sent the boy along without a hole in his head, and promptly made the decision to stop looking like a tourist.

He had been in Argentina for four days, and had been laying out the grounds to his plan. Klaus Schmid, his target, was often surrounded by a large security detail, and his house—no, mansion—had similar protections. While Harry was quite confident that assassinating him wouldn't be too hard, that was not his intention.

No, he needed to interrogate him first. Luckily, Harry had found a weakness, a weakness that had just staggered out of a nightclub across the street with a girl on each arm. His name was Thomas Schmid. He was seventeen, and Klaus Schmid's son.

He lived on his own, currently, and seemed to have been raised mostly by a chain of nannies and babysitters. Klaus seemed to have been attempting to keep him a secret; it had not worked.

Harry rolled his wand in his hand and pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against. Slowly, he began to trail Thomas through the crowds.

At one point, Thomas, made a phone call to his driver as he always did; Harry had been spying him for the first few days, and had decided that as the car pulled up would be the best time to strike. For a few more minutes, he followed Thomas, before he spotted the sleek and black vehicle.

He strode forward, suppressed pistol in his left hand and wand in his right. The driver was climbing out of his car; his progress was abruptly halted as a sharp crack rang through the night and he found himself with a hole in his head.

Thomas turned, groping at his waist for what was probably a gun.

 _"Stupefy!"_ A bolt of red light lanced from the tip of Harry's wand and splashed against Thomas's chest, sending him limply to the ground, unconscious.

Then another man was climbing from the car—and abruptly being put back down as two shots rang out and blood sprayed into the air.

Screaming, the two girls that had been with Thomas fled. Harry briefly contemplated putting a bullet through each of their skulls but decided against it. Judging by the screaming crowds, there were going to be a lot of witnesses anyway.

There weren't any police sirens yet, but nonetheless, Harry decided now would be a good time to set off his distraction. He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, called a number, and reduced the phone to dust with a muttered, _"Reducto."_

A moment later, a plume of fire rose in the distance. The noise of the explosion followed a few seconds later. There went one of Klaus Schmid's drug dealer's apartments. Harry had visited him earlier, liberated him of all the cocaine he had and killed him.

 _Wingardium Leviosa,_ Harry mentally incanted, casting the levitation spell on Thomas's unconscious body. Pulling it along behind him, he yanked the corpse of the man who had been the second to get out of the car from where he had collapsed against the back seats, and then loaded in Thomas.

He slammed the door shut and moved around to the back of the car. He waved his wand over the number plate and said, _"Concealo."_ The name of the spell spoke for what it did, and the characters on the number plate blurred so that they were indistinguishable. After repeating the process on the front number plate, he stepped over the corpse of the driver and into the driver's seat.

The key was already in the engine and so Harry was immediately driving.

Thomas remained unconscious in the back seat—he would for a few more hours or until Harry used the counter-spell on him.

Not ten minutes after he had begun driving, Harry pulled the car over. He had been constantly scanning the mirrors and road around him for any possible assailants, but there had been none. Now seemed like a good time to make the precautions that would ensure no one would be able to follow him at all.

He climbed into the back seat and began to root through Thomas's pockets. A phone, gun, and some drugs and some cash were all he found. He destroyed the phone after noting down the phone number of Klaus Schmid and kept the rest. Then he switched car, bringing Thomas with him once again.

He resumed driving and it wasn't too long before he arrived as his destination, a derelict factory. It had been abandoned for quite some time, judging by the dust and rust and copious amounts of graffiti on the walls.

For ten minutes or so, Harry walked around the building, searched for a good place to keep Thomas. Eventually, he decided on a place on the second floor. He dragged Thomas up and tied him to a chair.

As soon as he made the phone call, Klaus Schmid would likely be tracking him, so he set up his weapons first, a few traps, too. Once it was done, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled in the number he had gotten earlier.

The phone rang three times before someone on the other end picked it up.

"Hello?" said the voice on the other end, his Spanish German-accented.

"Hello," Harry said. "Would you prefer if we spoke German, Mr Schmid? Do you mind if I call you Mr Acker, as well? That was, after all, your father's name before he went into hiding."

"Who is this?" Klaus demanded. "How do you know that?"

"Not all of Hydra died, as I'm sure you know." A bluff, and hopefully one that would work.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not involved in—"

Harry snorted. "Of course, of course. I'm sure—but that doesn't matter. What does matter, though, is that I have your son."

"What?" Fear was the first thing to enter Klaus' voice. And then came the denial. "No, you don't."

Before he could continue, Harry put the phone on mute and pointed his wand to Thomas. _"Enervate,"_ he said. It was the counter-spell to Stupefy, and would awaken someone who it had been used on.

Thomas awoke with a startled yelp. While Harry himself had never needed to be "Enervated," the books he had read had said it was somewhat akin to electrification.

"Hello, Thomas," Harry said, putting the phone on speaker mode. "Say hello to your dad."

"Who the fuck are you?!" Spittle flew from Thomas' mouth.

Harry rolled his eyes and pressed the phone back to his ear. "You really should've taught your son not to be so vulgar, Klaus."

"W-what do you want?"

"Slightly more timid now, eh?" Harry smiled. "Anyway, you're going to come and answer some of my questions—alone with no weapons—and then I'm going to let you go free. Don't try to call in any backup—I'll know if you do." Another bluff.

Klaus' breathing accelerated, heavy through the phone. "Okay; where are you?"

"Trace me," Harry said and hung up the call. That would give him a while longer to set up his defence.

* * *

Two hours later, a bright red sports car pulled through the front gates of the factory. Klaus Schmid climbed from the car, looking nervous. From where Harry was, sitting on the roof with a pair of binoculars (sniper rifles were heavy and expensive and inconvenient to carry) it was near impossible to see whether or not he had any weapons concealed about his person.

Harry took the phone from his pocket and called him.

Klaus was quick to answer. "Hello? Where do I go?"

"The main building. I'm on the second floor. Try anything funny, and I'll kill you."

Before Klaus could answer, Harry hung up the call. Immediately, he moved from the edge of the roof from which he had been gazing down upon: Klaus was no longer his most important concern. No, there were much more pressing issues—the series of other vehicles which had just pulled up around the compound, for example.

Was there really a point in telling people to come alone? Harry had explicitly said it, yet here were the reinforcements. Criminals were _so_ rude. Harry had also seen a helicopter fly past a few minutes ago.

Harry briefly wondered whether it would be a good idea to try and take out some of Klaus' men before Klaus got there. It wouldn't be worth it, he eventually decided. They _most likely_ wouldn't intervene: Klaus didn't want to risk his son's life. And if Harry killed them now, it might alert the others and turn the whole thing into a bloodbath.

So he dropped back into the room below through the hole he had created in the ceiling. From behind his gag, Thomas tried to yell something at him.

"Okay, okay," Harry said. "Next time I'll use the rope so I don't risk breaking an ankle. You're so considerate, Tom."

Thomas reddened and resumed his muffled yelling.

It wasn't long before Harry heard Klaus' footsteps upon the stairs. The doorknob rattled as Klaus shook it, and the door gave way, falling to the floor rather than swinging on its hinges.

"Sorry about that," Harry said. "I only just moved in and haven't been able to fix that."

Klaus wasn't looking to him, however; he was looking to where his son was tied to the chair.

"Don't even think about it." Harry pointed to the explosives under the chair. "I'm not sure that I set those up correctly and might accidentally trigger them if I get nervous."

Klaus drew in a deep breath. "Okay."

"I'm just going to have to check you don't have any weapons, if you don't mind."

Klaus glared. "You said not to bring any."

"Nonetheless," Harry said, lazily gripping the handles of the MP5 submachine gun he had slung over his shoulder. "Anyway, I'm not stupid enough to get close to you, so I'm going to have to ask you to strip."

Klaus didn't move.

"Oh, trust me—I don't want to see you naked either." Klaus was in his early sixties and whilst once a member of Hydra, he had never been a field agent, and his physical condition had only deteriorated.

For a few moments, Klaus remained still, but then slowly began to remove his clothes until he was naked.

Harry nodded. "The earpiece, too, please."

In that moment he burst into action, turning around so that he faced the drywall behind him and throwing himself to the floor. Then he squeezed down on the trigger of his gun and the steady thunder of automatic fire shattered the quiet of the night.

Harry dragged his aim across the span of the wall and expended his thirty-round magazine in just over two seconds. As soon as his ammo was gone, he was on his feet, turning and thrusting his left hand forward, sending with it a blast of force which sent Klaus—who had been rather predictably dashing at him—tumbling away.

Not even registering the screams and moans on the other side of the wall, Harry slotted another magazine into his MP5, and proceeded to fire all of it through the wall as he had with the first. He dashed over to the still-restrained Thomas, taking cover behind him as three men with pistols burst through the doorway, trampling the fallen door.

None fired as they saw Harry's position, a crouch behind their boss' son. One of them rushed to their fallen boss, and the other two sprinted forward, trying to get a clear line of sight.

Harry stood, MP5 once again loaded, and slotted a short burst of automatic fire into each of the ones running at him. Both were sent to the floor, blood spraying around them as the shots caught them in the head and upper torso.

Ruthlessly efficient, Harry switched his aim to the one who had moved to Klaus. His finger had just touched the trigger when gunshots exploded into existence, three of them, all from the wall behind him which he had just peppered with bullets.

Two missed, and the third caught Harry in his left shoulder. Fiery pain shattered Harry's concentration and set his jaw clenching. One hand on his gun he spun around, finger squeezing the trigger and sending the rest of his magazine through the wall.

Even through the walls of agony blocking him from thinking clearly, Harry was able to realise that the distinct lack of people firing back probably meant his assailant was dead. And so he turned, injured arm hanging limp and MP5 dropped to his side, empty and useless.

Harry staggered forward, uninjured arm stretched out. He didn't reach for a pistol. No, he reached for his magic, let it burn through his veins and course from his fingertips. Perhaps it wasn't smart, but it was what felt best.

Pain became anger and anger became power. That power reached out and clenched its way around Klaus and the man attempting to carry him, sending both crashing into the wall. Harry reached out with his magic and grasped Klaus' man about the throat, dragging him into the air.

Klaus remained on the floor, eyes wide and terrified.

"You see this, Klaus?" Harry motioned to the purpling man suspended in the air beside him. "I am not human."

He jammed his fingers into his bullet wound and pulled out the crumpled round. The pain doubled, and the suspended man fell to the floor, neck snapped.

Harry dropped the crumpled bullet to the floor. "You want to tell me what you know about Hydra, or am I going to have to force you to?"

"In my house," Klaus rushed. "There's a safe with a few documents in. The password is 02987633!"

Harry looked into his eyes and sensed only the truth. "Everything is there?"

"Yes, yes! Everything!" Once again, it was the truth.

Harry smiled. "If you hadn't of brought backup, this would've been nice. But you did."

Harry clenched his fist and Klaus' hands went to his throat as invisible fingers clenched it. Steadily, Klaus began to thrash less. His muscles failed him as his lungs refused to work.

And then the life in his eyes was gone.

Harry turned to Thomas, who sat upon his chair, anger and sadness and horror in his eyes. All of those emotions became fear as Harry took a pistol from his jacket. Two shots later, he joined his father.

 **A/N: I promised you violence, and violence I delivered. Anyway, tell me what you thought.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

With a curse, Harry sent the contents of his desk to the floor. A moment later, the rest of the desk followed, reduced to splinters as a telekinetic blast slammed into it. Harry eyed the papers scattered on the ground and resisted the urge to pick up a leg of the desk and continue to wreak havoc upon the room.

The files had proven Harry both right and wrong. They had shown that Hydra had begun to operate after their apparent destruction—six years ago. With that timeline, there was no way that he could've been with Hydra for most of his captivity.

There were no more documents in Klaus' vault; Harry was sure of it. The documents had shown that Klaus was a member of the new leadership of Hydra, handling a large amount of their drug-dealing operations in South America.

While Harry had known he was rich, he hadn't even begun to _glance_ at the actual scope of Klaus' wealth. Either had SHIELD, from the looks of things. If they had, then Klaus would've already been locked away in some dark facility, being water boarded and interrogated for all he knew about Hydra.

Harry was just thankful that Klaus hadn't called for Hydra backup instead of some untrained gangsters. If he had, then…things would've gone badly, to say the very least.

Now, Harry was left to wonder what he was to do next. He could, of course, hunt down the currently operating organisation of Hydra—the one who had nothing to do with him.

Something squirmed in the back of Harry's mind, told him he needed to go back to where it had really begun. Not the Hydra base in Canada. No, that had undoubtedly been raided by SHIELD. All the files would be gone.

And so back to Privet Drive it was.

* * *

For once, stealth was unnecessary. Harry was rather enjoying it, too. No one would be expecting him to be here, and so he could stroll right up to the front door. He knocked three times. Noise came from inside, and Harry rolled his wand between the gloved fingers of his right hands.

If no one answered the door, he would go inside himself. Luckily, someone did, a long-necked woman, probably in her early forties, who, though thin, was far from attractive.

"Hello, Petunia," Harry said.

She glanced down to the wand in his hand and then to his face. She opened her mouth, though Harry was unsure whether she was going to gasp or scream. Either way, she was cut off as Harry's power surged up and gripped her around the throat.

"Yes, yes. It's me." He grinned. "Hope you don't mind if I let myself in."

Petunia clawed at her throat desperately as she was yanked into the air and pushed backwards. She crashed against the wall, sending a picture frame crashing to the floor with the sound of shattering glass.

"Mum, who is it?" The voice came from upstairs.

Harry nodded at Petunia, who was steadily turning blue. "I'm going to assume that's dear old Dudley, unless someone else was desperate enough to touch you after I killed your lovely husband."

"W-what?" Petunia managed to choke out.

Harry moved over to the foot of the stairs. "It's me, Dudders!" he yelled. "I decided to come home!"

The floorboards upstairs creaked and shifted, and Dudley appeared at the top of the stairs, recognisable even after all these years by his obesity. His eyes widened almost comically. "Harry?!"

"Surprised you remember me, Dudley—flattered, too." He grinned, and waved his hand, dragging Petunia into Dudley's view. His expression turned cold. "Now if you don't get down here and tell me everything you remember about the night I killed your father, I'm going to kill both of you."

"Killed my father… What?"

"Oh, don't tell me you don't remember. I mean, I knew you were stupid, but this? This is ridiculous."

"No, you didn't kill him."

Harry raised an eyebrow and recalled all of the nightmares he had experienced concerning the incident during his first few months at Hydra. "The memory of it is _quite_ distinctive."

Behind Harry, footsteps sounded against the floor, like someone awful at being quiet trying to be quiet.

Nonchalantly, Harry turned, stretching out his arm to magically grasp the new arrival about the throat and—

He froze and felt his jaw hang open of its own accord. Standing in the doorway was a large man, indistinguishably alive and well if you didn't count his obesity. He held a vase in his hand, and was apparently preparing to smash it over Harry's head.

"Vernon," Harry muttered. "No, you can't be alive. I remember killing you."

Vernon decided to take advantage of Harry's stunned state and charged. He was abruptly halted as a blast of force caught him in the torso and sent him crashing to the floor, leaving the vase to shatter next to him.

Harry strode forward, a knife suddenly in his hand. "How the hell are you alive?" He went to one knee and placed the blade under Vernon's chin. "Tell me!"

Terror shone in Vernon's eyes—terror and confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about!" It was true; his eyes told everything.

"No, no, no." Harry pressed the blade further into Vernon's fleshy neck. "I saw you die! I killed you! I tore you apart!" What the hell was going on?

Something moved behind Harry and he was immediately turning, flinging the knife in his hand. It span end-over-end and embedded itself in Dudley's shoulder. With a scream, he collapsed to the floor.

"No one move," Harry hissed, "or next time, that will be someone's throat." He paced back and forth, sparing but a glance to the terrified family. "What happened? When you last saw me?"

Petunia hesitated, and Harry shot forward, aligning a second knife with her throat.

"Speak or I'm going to gut you."

"O-okay," she stammered. "Some men came. They—"

"What did they look like? What were they wearing? Don't leave anything out unless you want to die."

"They were in suits," Petunia said, "expensive ones. I can't remember what they looked like—I think one was blond and one was older—grey-haired. They all looked quite athletic, but y-you can't really tell when someone's wearing a suit."

"Carry on."

"Well, they said they would take you away and we agreed."

"And then what?" Harry glanced around again to make sure that no one had moved.

Now, Petunia's expression grew even more terrified. "They-they pulled out wands—"

Harry's mind raced. "They were wizards?" What did wizards have to do with this?

Petunia frowned. "Two of them were—I think they were at least."

Harry breathed in deeply. "Then what did they do with the wands?"

"One of them said 'oblivion' or something, and the other said something about blood protection, and then they left with you."

Dumbledore had mentioned something about blood protection. It was some magical ward created by Lily Potter's "love" for Harry, and her "sacrifice." From what Harry had seen, magic didn't work that way, but Dumbledore was probably correct. Apparently, the blood protection extended to all of Lily Potter's relatives—Petunia and Dudley—whilst they were in the house and protected them from magic.

So who were these men? Hydra agents who were also wizards with knowledge akin to that of Dumbledore? And why hadn't they just executed the Dursleys? That was what Hydra would've done in any other case. Harry had been half-expecting the house to have new inhabitants when he turned up.

But there had been that whisper in the back of his head, telling him that something was wrong. And something was _very_ wrong. He had been Obliviated—perhaps more than that. And whilst normally, replacement memories were vague, his had been vivid enough to give him nightmares for months and months.

Legilimency, perhaps? Mixed with Obliviation it could likely prove very effective.

Harry doubted that any answers would be easy to find. What he did know, though, was that wizards lived for a long time. If the elderly man Petunia had described had been a wizard, he might've been working with Hydra since their creation.

If Hydra had ever used wizards, this was the first Harry had heard of it. It was certainly not documented within Klaus Schmid's files. An idea rushed to the forefront of Harry's thoughts. Hydra had been created in Germany, and had been heavily involved in World War 2.

At the same time as World War 2, a war had also raged in the wizarding world, between a German organisation and England. If Hydra had wizards, they would've likely had a hand in both wars. Grindelwald had been the leader of the German wizards; one of his followers was nigh-on doubtlessly a member of Hydra.

These kind of records weren't exactly available to the public, unfortunately. They would probably be buried deep within the German Ministry of Magic—the one Harry currently knew nothing about and it would take weeks to figure out a proper method of infiltration to.

There were a few other places the information might be, though. Ones such as in the minds of Dumbledore, Harry would never have a chance of getting to. Within the British Ministry of Magic, however, there would be archives.

And from what Harry had seen of the magical British Government, he didn't think they would be very hard to steal from.

Very suddenly, Harry remembered that he was crouching over Petunia, a knife to her throat. Judging by the amount her horrified expression had grown, he had been doing it for quite some time. He stood to his full height and glanced around the room.

"Tell no one I was here," he said. He might've killed them for their past sins—a lust for revenge burned in his veins—but at a later date they might be able to provide him with information that might help him take down Hydra, the organisation who were actually a threat to him.

Without a glance back at the terrified family, he strode from the door and an invisible force slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

It was mere hours later when Harry found himself descending into the Ministry of Magic. He was in a phone box, which turned into an elevator when you called the correct number. Still, he struggled to figure out where wizards came up with such ideas.

The door to the pay phone swung open and Harry stepped out into the atrium. It was on the eighth floor, he knew. If he wanted to get to the documents concerning Hydra—if they existed, that was—he would have to get down to the second floor, where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement dwelt.

If what he had seen of the magical government applied to the security in place at the Ministry of Magic, it would be easy.

That suspicion was confirmed as he walked straight past the receptionist when she turned to speak to a colleague.

When infiltrating anywhere, arguably, the most important part was looking as though you belonged. Harry was rather good at it, and had dressed in a robe for the occasion.

He moved into the elevator. Two wizards and a witch also stood inside, but none paid him any mind. One of them seemed to have already pressed the button for the second floor. Harry guessed it was the witch, judging by her crimson robes—that was what Aurors, the magical police force, wore.

True to Harry's guess, the woman got out of the elevator on the second floor—the other two had left.

Harry glanced up at the signs overhead. To the left, was the Auror Headquarters. Straight ahead, was the area for reporting crimes. To the right, were temporary holding cells.

The archives were likely in the Headquarters of the Aurors, Harry decided. He couldn't just charge in while there will still so many people there, though. He would be seen and if he wasn't immediately defeated by however many trained wizards there would be in there, bullet-ridden corpses would undoubtedly clue in Dumbledore as to who exactly had done it.

He had known this before, and had planned accordingly. He moved straight forward, towards the area where one would report a crime. An Auror was sitting behind a desk and a few people were sitting around waiting for something. Only one of them glanced up as Harry entered, and then he quickly returned to his newspaper.

Harry glanced around and almost immediately spotted what he was looking for: the sign to the bathroom. He walked in and glanced at the cubicles. If he hid in one of them, he would most likely be found at some point. The walls, however…

Harry moved around the room, knocking on the walls until he found one that sounded to be hollow.

 _"Silencio,"_ he muttered, pointing his wand at the wall. His Silencing Charm wasn't exactly effective—it wouldn't last very long—but it would be good enough for what he needed to do. Harry waited for a few minutes to make sure no one had detected the spell. Then he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small explosive—just in case they could detect offensive spells.

He stepped into a cubicle for cover and squeezed his detonator. A muffled explosion sounded and sent pieces of tile across the room. A hole was now in the centre of the wall, revealing a small space on the other side, pipes lining the bottom.

With a satisfied smile, Harry stepped through, and fixed the wall with a simple repairing spell. Now, he just had to wait for night to fall.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Three hours passed and, still, Harry remained in his hiding place. The Ministry had closed two hours ago; now, Harry was just being cautious. Screwing this up would likely result in disaster.

Now was probably a safe time to leave, though: the last time anyone had come into the bathroom had been an hour ago, and they had just been making sure that no one was in there. Harry had just finished putting on his disguise: a balaclava and a mask.

 _"Silencio,"_ Harry said, pointing his wand towards the wall as he had last time. Once again, he waited for anyone to come looking for him—there could be different magic detection wards at this hour.

No one came.

This time, Harry needed no plastic explosives to destroy the wall; he simply drove his feet into it a few times until it cracked and fell to pieces. That was a result of the awful repairing spell he had used earlier. A slight nudge of his telekinesis would've still been an easier method to take the wall down, but, once again, who knew what kinds of ward were in place? It would be best not to use it unless it was demanded of him.

Harry opened the door a crack and peered out. No was in the waiting room now. In fact, everything seemed to be silent. He supposed it wasn't necessary to constantly be in your headquarters in the wizarding world, when you could teleport there in a second.

Even with everything silent, Harry was on edge. Silence could be deceiving—it often was. So far, wizards had shown to be largely incompetent it matters such as this, though. Even with a far greater array of possibilities at hand than muggles—they had invisibility cloaks and spells, for God's sake—wizarding history books didn't even _mention_ espionage.

Perhaps it was the fault of stupidity or arrogance. Or maybe wizards were just very good at preventing any kind of spying.

Harry reached the part from before where it split off in four directions. He stopped for a moment to listen for any sound. Nothing. He glanced off down to where the holding cells were. If there were any prisoners, there would most certainly be a guard. Hopefully, he wouldn't be here or would be napping on the job.

If it came down to a fight, Harry was going to use his magic—bullets would make too unusual a crime and would likely result in a larger amount of people looking for him. Nonetheless, Harry felt his free hand wrapping around a pistol, a finger resting upon the trigger guard.

A nervousness not seen in an age was creeping up his spine. All his life, he had fought against normal people—muggles—who wielded guns and knives and explosives. Now, he ventured into the realm of magic and spells, most of which Harry was utterly unfamiliar with.

Logically, Harry knew that guns posed a greater threat than wands: you could pull a trigger faster than you could speak even a single word; a bullet moved faster than almost any spell, and some guns could fire dozens of them in a second. He had faced them down without fear many times before.

But wizards…they were utterly foreign. He had never fought one before—unless you included the battle against Dumbledore, which was too one-sided to be called a fight.

In every battle of his life, Harry had been the superhuman; now he was inferior, not using a gun out of fear of detection. He did, however, have the element of surprise, a weapon that had proved most effective in the past.

Harry made to move forward—and froze at the sound of footsteps. He immediately ducked back around the corner, pressing himself against a wall. The footsteps continued, clicking against the floor. In the muggle world, Harry would've immediately thought it a woman; with wizards, fashion sense was slightly different.

Wand raised, heart racing and a spell upon his lips, Harry prepared for the person to turn the corner.

He—a man, as it turned out—did turn the corner. Not towards Harry, though. No, back turned to Harry, he moved towards the elevator. A sigh of relief welled up inside Harry, but he pushed it back. He inched backwards and crouched behind a potted plant, watching the Auror until the elevator doors closed and he was gone from sight.

Something told him that wouldn't be the only person here. He steeled his nerves—willed them to return to the state they had been set in years ago by Hydra's hands.

He peered around the corner, made sure the path was clear, and slowly progressed down the corridor, towards the set of double doors at the end. He pushed against them slightly, but they didn't give way. With a frown, he pushed harder, setting his entire weight against it. Nothing.

There was probably some kind of magical mechanism stopping it from being opened, then. The doors would also probably be resistant against other spells. There was no point in even trying.

Explosives it was, then. It would most definitely alert anyone inside, but—

Harry stumbled forward as the door opened, flailing for his balance. He collided with someone—a female Auror—and with only a moment of thought swept their legs from under them and fell to the floor atop them. His wand slipped from his grip and clattered across the floor.

The Auror under him struggled to get her own wand up to face him, Harry gripped her wrist and prepared to send a blast of telekinesis towards her—and then caught sight of a back-peddling Auror out of the corner of his eye. He rolled sideways, dragging the female Auror atop him just into for her body to intercept the bolt of red that flew from the wand of the other Auror.

It was the Stunning Spell, _Stupefy_. Harry recognised it as when the body on top of him slumped into unconsciousness. From underneath her, he thrust out his hand and let loose a blast of telekinesis that probably failed to do much but ruffle the other Auror's clothes: if Harry wanted to do powerful wandless magic, he needed either concentration or immense anger and pain; he had neither.

Another silently cast _Stupefy_ was shot at Harry; this time, it splashed against the floor next to him. Harry shoved the body off of him and dived for cover, just managing to get behind an office cubicle as another spell zoomed past him.

He peered around the corner, looking for his wand. It lay about five metres away—too far for Harry to telekinetically grab it with any finesse. The unconscious Auror's wand, however, lie just a metre away. A moment of concentration later and it was in Harry's hand. No magic sparked, like it did when Harry was using his own wand. It was basically incompatible with him.

It would have to do.

Harry peeked around the corner again; there was no one. He ducked back behind his cover and listened. Footsteps, coming towards him from the other side of the cubicle. As the man came around the corner, another bolt of red bursting from his wand, Harry was already on the floor.

 _"Stupefy,"_ he said, but the only thing he accomplished was a stream of red sparks that extinguished almost immediately.

He rolled out of another spell's path and sent forward a blast of telekinetic energy that picked the man up and hurled him backwards; he flew three metres and smashed down onto the floor.

Another red-robed man—one Harry hadn't seen before—was quickly moving around the corner, but Harry was already gone, around the other corner and scrambling for his wand. By the time the Auror had rounded the corner and was upon him, Harry had his own wand.

 _"Protego,"_ he said and a barrier of shimmering blue burst into existence just in time to intercept another bolt of red light.

With Harry now having a shield charm up, the Auror decided to change up his game. A duo of orange spells took down the shield. The Auror followed up with another bolt of red, which Harry dodged, not bothering to put up another shield. It was just as well, for another two orange spells followed.

Harry sidestepped both and said, _"Stupefy."_

The Auror looked unfazed. He brought a shield into existence with casual ease and took it down as soon as it had caught the spell. Still, he had not spoken a single word—a single incantation. Harry _could_ do wordless magic, but wasn't exactly proficient enough to fight with it.

The Auror began another spell, this time aiming his wand beside Harry rather than at him.

Spinning towards what the Auror was aiming at, Harry raised his free hand and unleashed a telekinetic blast that deflected what he now saw was a potted plant headed for him. Even as he turned, he was diving to the floor, narrowly avoiding a pink spell and skidding across the floor. He unleashed another telekinetic blast, but it was funnelled around the Auror as he raised a shield.

Harry cursed and reached into his sleeve. As the Auror lowered his shield, he suddenly found a throwing knife protruding from his wand-arm. His previously cold and professional demeanour shattered as he screamed, and he aimed his wand wildly—only to be picked up a thrown backwards as a wall of force slammed against him.

 _"Stupefy,"_ Harry said. His aim was true, and the jet of crimson met the Auror in mid-air.

Once again, all was silent but for Harry's heavy breathing and racing heart. And then someone groaned. It would have to be the man from earlier that Harry had blasted away. He strode around the corner to see him staggering to his feet.

 _"Stupefy."_

The man hit the floor again.

One might dismiss the Stunning Spell as not being very useful, when there were many spells that could kill in one hit, but when you were trying not to kill people or use magic any detection ward might classify as "Dark," as to avoid a lengthy investigation or eminent reinforcements, then it proved quite effective.

Harry moved around the room again, making sure everyone was unconscious and thanking God there had only been three people present. If there had been more… Well, the best case scenario would've been him being forced to use his gun.

Once he had ensured that everyone had been neutralised, Harry made his way over to the doors at the end of the room. He tried pressing one of the Auror's wands against them. Nothing. Explosives it was, then.

The doors were blown inwards with an ear-shattering explosion, reduced to splinters as the blast bypassed any magical protections. Harry strode inwards, wand and knife raised. There was nobody, and no sound but wood crunching underfoot.

In front of Harry were two doors. The one on the left was marked "criminal records," and the one on the right "historical archives." Harry took the one on the right. It lead him into a room with filing cabinets all over the place, sorted by era.

Harry took two steps forward before suddenly coming to a halt and turning to walk away. Why was he here again? He was just stepping out of the door when something dark reared back in his mind and made its presence known. Instantly, Harry was heading back into the room, now carefully searching for any signs of the spell that had led him away.

It was a subtle thing, gently pressing on his mind and urging him away. He had almost fallen for it. Somehow, he felt it didn't apply to all unwelcome visitors, just those looking for documents concerning certain topics. And that meant it had even been able to enter his mind.

He felt his jaw clench at the thought and made a note to step up his studies of Occlumency. He moved through the room, now cautious. In the section concerning World War II, files about SHIELD, Hydra, and even Grindelwald were noticeably absent. Something was being hidden.

He felt his nails score angry, red marks against his palms. He was going to discover the truth, and he was going to make the ones who had hidden it pay. First, he had to go to Germany.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Harry weaved his way through the airport crowds and found his way to a café. He moved over to a table and sat down opposite its occupant.

He leaned forward with a smile, wand in his hand under the table and ready to launch any attack that might be needed. "Hello," he greeted in German. "Come here often?"

Natasha put down her newspaper. "No, how about you?"

Harry shrugged, a flick of his wand silently sending forward a spell that would short any electronics on Natasha. "Not really. I'm only here because I need to find some documents so I can resume my little Hydra hunt." He cocked his head to the side. "And what happens to lead you to Berlin at the same time as me? Coincidence?"

"No," Natasha said. "I just looked over the SHIELD records that you stole—the digital versions—and it didn't take much to put two and two together and figure out where you'd went when Klaus Schmid went missing along with a few of his men—his house, too."

"Yes, I was rather thorough with that." Harry smiled. "I have a feeling that no one's ever going to find their bodies." Magic was rather useful for all sorts of things.

"After I knew you were in Brazil, it didn't take much for me to guess you might be heading back to England. I looked over all of the flights from Rio to London for a few days, and your lovely, new hair"—she gestured up to his blond hair—"didn't do much to conceal your face. From that, I just tracked 'James Smithson' to here."

Harry nodded. "I should've changed passports," he admitted. At the time, he hadn't been thinking too rationally, hadn't been bothered to take many precautions. "So, why are you here? I assume you're not here with SHIELD's knowledge."

"I wanted to check up on you."

One of Harry's eyebrows floated upwards. "To check up on me? Really?"

"I helped you get the documents. I want to know if I can help you with the rest of what you're doing."

Harry shook his head. "You can't. There are forces at play which you do not understand."

Now it was Natasha's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I'm the world's best assassin."

"Well, it's a shame that I'm not assassinating anyone at the moment."

"I have other skills."

"I'll be sure to call if I'm throwing a party and need a stripper."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "As good as I am at that, I only do private shows." She leaned forward and smiled at him.

Harry glanced down her low-cut shirt for only a moment. "You know, your attempts at seduction somehow aren't made any worse by the fact that you kill most of the people you sleep with."

"I would hope so."

With a sigh, Harry leaned back in his seat. "Somehow, I feel as though, if I don't tell you what's going on, you're going to keep trying to find out." He smirked. "Before you decide to tie me to a chair and _interrogate_ me, I feel obliged to remind you that I'm fifteen."

Natasha matched his smirk. "The age of consent in Germany is fourteen." She stroked his hand lying atop the table and tilted her head to the side. "Unless, of course, you complain."

Harry drew his hand back, shifting slightly and ensuring he did not blush. "Do you assassins have no morals?" he grumbled.

Natasha chuckled. "Not really."

"I hope you're joking so that I don't hate myself later for turning down your offer."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to find out myself?"

"Why do you even want to know?" Harry wasn't sure that he trusted her entirely. She gained nothing from reporting to SHIELD, but still…

"Don't friends help each other?"

"Are we friends?"

Natasha shrugged. "I don't really have friends."

"Either do I," Harry said. He stared at her for a moment. She could help him—perhaps not now, but things would go a lot easier if he didn't have to break into SHIELD each time he needed a look at their documents. "Fine," he sighed out. "You're not going to believe me unless I can give you a demonstration, so let's go and find a hotel so I can show you my wand."

* * *

"Magic," Natasha murmured. "Magic exists."

"Yep," Harry said, continuing to levitate the television around the room. "I can't quite pull rabbits out of hats yet, though. They always come out extremely dead."

"How did I miss something like this?"

Harry shrugged. "You tell me. Wizards tend to stay within their communities, so they're not easy to notice unless you're specifically looking for them."

"But still…how many wizards are there?"

"Thousands upon thousands. Haven't bothered to look at specific numbers." Harry collapsed into a chair. "Now do you understand why I don't want you involved?"

Natasha nodded. "But do guns work against wizards?"

"The average one," Harry guessed. "I haven't had time to test them out myself. A more powerful wizard would probably just rip it out of your hand and shield himself from any bullets—not unless you used a sniper rifle when they didn't know you were there. Even then, I'd guess that someone like Dumbledore—yes, that's really his name—would have countermeasures."

"A drone strike, then?"

Harry eyed her cautiously. "Are you planning on assassinating me, Natasha?" He smiled. "A bullet will probably do for me. Wouldn't want SHIELD wasting any fancy missiles on me."

"I'm sure SHIELD can fit a few more in their budget."

"Yeah, yeah." Harry rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I need to go and steal some secret magical documents." He glanced at his watch. "If I'm not here in four hours, I'm probably dead, so don't look for me." He made for the door and paused. "And don't try to follow me—we wizards can teleport."

That wasn't a lie. Harry didn't actually apparate, though. It was too easily tracked for his tastes and he wasn't exactly very good at it. Hopefully, mentioning it would stop any pursuits from Natasha, though.

* * *

An hour later, Harry was ambling up to the entrance of the German Ministry of Magic. Unlike the British Ministry of Magic, it was not underground. No, it stood in the middle of Berlin, a tall and imposing structure that looked like someone had smashed together a castle and an office building.

Many a charm covered it, concealing it from muggle eyes with frightening ease. Their eyes simply slid over it, and yet they did not bump into it. Harry glanced up at the top of the building and wondered how frequently helicopters unknowingly avoided colliding with it by mere feet.

The doors swung open as Harry approached, no electronics in sight. Harry moved through into a high-ceilinged room, pillars of white marble reaching upwards in a style that he would've expected to find in Greece rather than here.

People who appeared to be guards were dotted around the edge of the room, all dressed in robes of a matching navy blue.

Already, this looked like it was going to be a lot harder than Harry's raid on the British Ministry. Harry wasn't too worried. As far as he was concerned, German guns were better than German wizards, and he had a few about his person.

Harry moved up to the counter and casually scanned over the list that told you what was on each floor. The sixth floor was where he needed to go, he discovered: it was titled _Library and Archives._

As another person spoke to the lady behind the counter, Harry stood slightly behind them, and then followed them through, acting as though he was with them. As soon as no one was looking, he quickly split paths with the man, who headed for a doorway.

Harry glanced at the elevators and promptly decided it would be safer to take the stairs; the elevators were crowded and he wanted to avoid any undue attention.

He made short work of the stairs, finding them nearly empty. He entered the library and glanced over the second entrance, seeing that it seemed to require some kind of magical equivalent of a library card.

A door leading to a bathroom was on his right, and he went through it. One stall was occupied. Perfect. He stepped into the one next to it and stepped atop the toilet. Reaching his wand over the dividing wall, he muttered, _"Stupefy."_

Red light flashed and no one spoke. Harry heaved himself up and looked down at the man on the other side. He hadn't even managed to get his trousers down, thank God. A newspaper lie on the floor by his feet and he slumped back against the toilet, whose closed seat he sat upon.

Harry dropped to the floor beside him and searched through the pockets of his robes. He found a wallet and cast a few simple detection charms on it, ensuring it wasn't trapped. It wasn't. So he flipped it open and took the card from the inside.

Hans Adler, it said, listing a birthdate only a few years after Harry's. Harry glanced to the boy and frowned: he looked nothing like him. He would just have to hope that wizards didn't have any sort of facial identification system.

He took the identification card and exited the bathroom, leaving the stall locked.

A slight apprehension tingled up Harry's spine as he moved to where people were scanning their cards. He fingered his knives and held his breath as he swiped it. It worked fine, though, and he continued onward.

These books seemed to be rather basic texts, the kind you could get at any old store. Nothing of any importance was here. There were other doors, though, most of them locked and guarded. The one labelled _Historical Archives,_ was not. It was also significantly less populated.

At the end of the room was yet another door, this time reading _Authorised Staff Only._ In front of it two men in blue robes sat at a table, playing some variation of a card game. From the complete lack of sound emitting from them, Harry guessed they were under some sort of silencing ward.

Good. Most of those prevented outside noise as well. That would sort Harry's needs perfectly.

He glanced over the people walking between the shelves and pulled on a balaclava.

Two minutes later, four people lied unconscious on the floor, tucked into places where they couldn't be seen, and the door was barred off. Harry hadn't used any spells, just in case there were wards to detect offensive magic—he had read about those.

He moved over to the men at the table. The sound of their conversation flowed over him as he stepped into their ward. Both looked up at the same time. The first fell before he had even had time to focus on Harry—a blast of telekinesis came smashing up into his jaw.

The second got further. His wand was in his hand when Harry descended upon him, a quick blow to the neck driving away any incantation. And then Harry's knife was resting upon his throat.

"Don't move," Harry murmured, "or you'll get to see if magical healing is fast enough to save you from a slit throat."

The man was still.

"Beyond this door, what will I find?"

"The Archives—the ones where you have to request texts from," the man said, voice panicked. "The man who runs them, too."

"No one else?"

"No one else," the man confirmed.

Harry hummed in acknowledgement. "Are there any wards to detect spellfire?"

The man hesitated. "I—"

"If you lie, I'll make you scream."

The man drew in a shaky breath. "Yes, but my wand and his"—he gestured to the man Harry had knocked out—"won't trigger it."

Harry nodded and muttered and replaced the knife with his arm, squeezing the man's throat into unconsciousness. He tested the wand of the man and then the wand of the other man. The second wasn't a good fit, per se, but it would be good enough to catch someone by surprise.

Pushing any nervousness to the back of his mind, he charged into the room, _"Expelliarmus,"_ spilling from his lips as he caught sight of a someone's back.

The man was fast, already spinning on his heel as the first syllable sounded. Not fast enough. The spell splashed against his chest, sending his wand flying across the room and him smashing backwards into a bookcase.

Harry strode forward, grabbed the man by the collar and heaved him to his feet, slamming him against a wall. He was old, wrinkles across his terrified face.

"Where are the files on Grindelwald?" Harry demanded.

Panicked, the man gestured over to some shelves. Harry dragged him over and rooted through the files. Nothing you wouldn't find in a history textbook—suspicious for supposedly restricted files. Just like at the British Ministry.

Seething, Harry turned to the man. "Don't lie to me—where are the confidential ones?"

"I-I don't know—I swear!" the man cried. "They were supposed to be here!"

He was telling the truth. But there was something more in his eyes.

"You know something, though." Harry smiled. This man was old enough to have known him.

The man was silent.

"Fine. _Avada—"_ It had been a bluff—there were easier spells for such matters—but the man didn't know that.

"No!" the man howled. "Please no! He's in Numenburg!"

Harry paused. "What?"

"He's in Nurmengard! The prison he made!"

Harry's mind raced: he had thought he was dead. If he was truly alive, it was even better than he had hoped. Now, he just had to "interview" Grindelwald; that would tell him all he needed to know.

He smiled. Perhaps things were in his favour for once.

He pointed his wand at the man. _"Obliviate."_ Nothing—a result of the shoddy wand. _"Obliviate."_ This time, it worked, if terribly, wiping the past few hours from the man's mind.

The memory-wiping spell had come easy to Harry—just like Legillimency and Occlumency. Admittedly, he wasn't very well practised, but it did the job.

Now, Harry just had to fix everything and make it look as though he had never been here. He began to cast repairing charms over the room, putting the bookcase back together with only slight inaccuracy.

He moved over to the door to Obliviate the guards—and then it was barged open. Harry was immediately casting his first spell. It was blocked by a shield and he dived aside as he caught a glimpse of the navy-robed people beyond.

A spell smashed against the bookcase behind him with no effect and he crawled behind it. He could hear men yelling—at least six of them, probably more. With great panic, he realised he was utterly screwed. Guns wouldn't do much against people with shields up and would only draw more wizards towards the commotion—who knew how many were already here?

And then he realised there were windows. He cursed. There was no other option.

He ran for them, casting a shield behind him. It held for two spells.

Harry cursed as a bludgeoning hex caught him in the side and sent him flying. As he flew through the air, another spell hit him, a petrifying curse. It should've completely paralysed him, but it had only clipped his foot.

And so he crashed against the wall, his legs not working. His head rung, and, once again, he realised he was screwed. He groaned and slung his backpack from his shoulder. The men were approaching cautiously.

 _"Reducto,"_ he murmured, aiming at the bag. It became dust, along with its contents—weapons would make him look guilty. He removed the other weapons from about his person and destroyed them as the wizards closed in.

A spell—one he didn't recognise—boomed in his ears and his world became blackness.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Consciousness came to Harry quickly, crashing into him like a bucketful of cold water. Unlike normal, there was no slow realisation that he was most likely being held captive. Also lacking was a throbbing pain in his head. This was probably a result of him being knocked out with magic, he realised.

He didn't open his eyes, didn't let his breathing change. Metal handcuffs sat tight on his wrists, most likely chained to the table he could feel them resting on. He sat on a chair, just as cold and uncomfortable as the cuffs.

A bright light shone upon him—he could sense that even from behind his eyelids.

Perhaps most importantly, there was someone in the room with him. Their chair scraped against a concrete floor. They cursed—a male voice—and muttered a word in a guttural language. Harry didn't recognise it.

Instantly, a shock passed through Harry's nervous system, as though he was being electrocuted.

Gasping, he opened his eyes; the spell had hopefully been meant to wake him. He let his eyes dart around the room like he was surprised, actually taking everything in.

It was all blank concrete, as he had suspected, but for the steel door and a light set flush against the ceiling.

Room analysed, he attempted to move his limbs. He was chained thoroughly, his arms bound, legs bound, and the cuffs of the former chained to the table.

He turned his attention to the man opposite him. Navy-robed, grey-haired and cold-eyed, he had to be a German Auror nearing his sixties. His wand rested casually in his left hand. His right hand rested on the table.

"Good morning," he said in German.

Harry let false nervousness taint his movements as he glanced around. "G-good morning." He matched the man's German, slipping into a Swiss accent.

Already, he was attempting to work his magic upon the chains. Nothing was happening; when he reached for his magic, he could still use it, but it wouldn't break the chains and refused to affect anything more than a few centimetres from his body. He didn't have any weapons, either; he had been searched whilst unconscious, and he had managed to destroy most of them anyway.

Harry continued to use his magic, however useless it seemed.

"I'm sure you know why you're here," the man said.

Harry wondered what they would attempt to charge him for and silently wished he had taken more time to study the German magical legal system. They probably had him for destroying government property, theft, multiple counts of assault, illegal Obliviation and a whole host of other crimes. At least he had been smart enough not to kill anyone.

"N-no, I really don't know." He glanced nervously around the room.

"You broke into the Ministry of Magic and assaulted multiple people, and then carelessly Obliviated someone, possibly causing permanent damage."

Harry let his jaw hang open.

The man leaned forward. "You need to cooperate with us," he said. "You're what? Fifteen? Sixteen? You've got your whole life ahead of you, and you might've just ruined it."

Harry let some of his false nervousness fade away. He frowned. "You said that I Obliviated someone?"

The man nodded.

"Well, I'm not really very good at that spell, so that probably explains why I can't remember any of the breaking into the Ministry of Magic and assaulting everyone." It wasn't a good excuse. It didn't need to be.

The man blinked. He went to speak, but then closed his mouth again. "You're saying that you Obliviated yourself?"

"Well, _someone_ did it."

"You don't remember anything?"

"No, all I remember is coming to Austria and—"

"You're in Germany."

Harry let his jaw drop. "G-Germany? I'm in Germany?!"

"You're speaking German."

Harry glared at the man. "I gathered that. They speak German in Switzerland, too, you know."

The man was beginning to look lost. His previous demeanour had faded into confusion. "You're from Switzerland?"

"No, I just tend to tell interviewers that to confuse them!" He groaned. "Of course I'm from Switzerland?"

"Oh, god," the man said. He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands.

In other words, he took his eyes off of Harry, who released his hold over his magic, letting the telekinetic lockpicks he had been using fade from existence. He threw off his handcuffs and leapt across the table, legs still bound to each other.

Before the man had time to look up, Harry was crashing into him and he was crashing into the floor. Harry used the man to cushion his fall, and scrambled for the wand, grabbing it up and sending a silent Stunner into his opponent, who was still dazed from his head colliding with the floor. Now he slumped, unconscious.

With a stumble, Harry stood. He glanced down at the chains that bound him. _"Diffindo."_ He poured as much power as possible into the Cutting spell and it sheared straight through the metal.

Harry stepped from his chains and pulled up the unconscious Auror, using him as a human shield. After waiting a moment to ensure no one was coming in, Harry edged towards the door and pushed it. It swung open to reveal a busy and loud room, not unlike a police precinct.

Multiple glanced at him. One yelled, and then everyone was looking at him.

Harry cursed his luck and stayed silent—he had been hoping there wouldn't be anyone outside. Silencing charms had kept him from hearing all of the activity.

After a few moments of yelling and commotion and wizards scrambling for their wands, Harry barked, "Stop!" He pointed his wand at the wizard in his grip's head. "If anyone attacks me, I'll take his head off!"

There were a dozen people in the room, all of them in between Harry and the way out.

The room was silent. And then someone spoke. "My god… Harry Potter."

Harry's eyes snapped towards the man who had spoken, and, as they did so, caught sight of a mirror, which revealed that his entire disguise had been destroyed and he looked like his normal self— and that included the scar so distinctive that apparently even a random German recognised it. He cursed. Could his luck get any worse?

As if in answer to his thought, someone began to flick their wand through the air, a spell on their lips. Harry was too fast for them, though; he already had his power coiled, and now unleashed it from his free hand.

A blast of force caught the man in his chest before he had finished his second syllable, and hurled him backward, sending him crunching into the wall. Attempting to take advantage of Harry's momentary distraction, another person moved—this one less than two metres from Harry.

Thusly, Harry's next attack held more finesse. His assailant screamed as both of their wrists broke. Their scream was promptly cut off as they were lifted by their throat and slammed up into the ceiling. A moment later they fell limply back down onto the ground.

"No one move." This time, his command was obeyed.

And then the Auror Harry was holding drove an elbow into his gut. Harry was so surprised at the too quick recovery from his Stunner that he didn't blow the man's head off or block the barrage of spells that came his way and included half a dozen Stunners.

* * *

To his surprise, when Harry next awoke, he wasn't in a cell. Rather, he was in a bed, tucked under white sheets and wearing what appeared to be some kind of hospital gown.

At the end of the bed stood Dumbledore. "Hello, Harry."

Harry glanced around at the familiar stone walls and quickly deduced he was in Hogwarts. "Hello, Professor Dumbledore." He wasn't exactly sure what to say. He made to sit up and groaned slightly at his headache.

"Being hit simultaneously with multiple Stunning spells tends to give one a headache," said Dumbledore. "You're lucky that they weren't fatal, with how many hit you. Madam Pomphrey has healed your other injuries."

Harry sent a pulse of magic through his body and found that there was almost nothing left for him to heal but for a bruise on the back of his head that had likely gone unnoticed, probably being of a mundane rather than magical origin. With a flash of pain and a directed thought, it healed.

He turned his focus back to Dumbledore. "I suppose you want to know why I attempted to raid the German Ministry of Magic."

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry focused on the bridge of his nose, careful not to meet his eye. "Hydra—I was looking for files about them. I thought that they might've had links to magical Germany, and I wanted to see if there was any evidence for the branch of them that trained me."

"Did you discover what you were looking for?"

"No," Harry lied.

Dumbledore sighed and moved forward, sitting on the edge of Harry's bed. "I understand how much this means to you, Harry. If I were in your place, I cannot say that I would've done anything differently. But would it not have been simpler to ask me?"

"Do you know anything about Hydra, then?"

"Nothing about them that relates to you, no. And believe me, I have looked into it."

 _And that's why I didn't ask you._ Harry wasn't sure if he trusted Dumbledore. The man, elderly and gentle might he seem, frightened Nick Fury, and was the most powerful wizard in the world—both in political and magical terms. One did not become a politician of that calibre without being a skilled liar.

In the back of his mind, a dark little voice agreed with Harry's suspicions, told him that he couldn't tell Dumbledore that he knew the Dursleys were alive, and that they had most definitely been visited by a wizard.

"I must ask you to not look further into such matters. I only just managed to smooth things over in Germany and I doubt they will be so lenient again."

Harry nodded obediently, silently planning out the best way to find Grindelwald's prison. "How did you manage to get me out of trouble?"

Dumbledore grimaced. "I lied. I said that you were under the effects of a botched Imperius Curse from one of Voldemort's German followers, who found you but didn't believe he could kill you and so sought to get you incriminated and imprisoned instead."

"And they bought that?" Harry asked incredulously.

"People are often willing to dismiss their enemies as incompetent. There was one term to your release, however."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You must attend Hogwarts—or in their words, remain under my supervision to ensure that there is not a repeat event."

Harry groaned.

"Surely it is not _that_ bad, Harry." Dumbledore smiled. "Hogwarts is one of the greatest schools of magic in the world, and has one of the most extensive libraries."

"They're making me attend Hogwarts so that I don't get attacked by Death Eaters—are they forgetting about all of the children of Death Eaters in Slytherin?"

"They are only children, Harry—"

"Sorry," Harry interrupted, "but are we talking about the Slytherins or the German government, what with their wonderful scheme?"

At that, Dumbledore smiled again. "Do not judge people by their heritage, Harry. Leave that to Voldemort. Anyway, I will leave you to rest. Your wand is under your pillow. It's Saturday today, so you have a few days before your classes. So that you can catch up with your missed work, I've provided the necessary textbooks on your nightstand as you seem to have lost your own."

And with that, he turned and left, leaving Harry to plot his interrogation of Grindelwald, and figuring out when he would be able to leave Hogwarts. The Christmas holidays would likely fit his needs nicely. Until then, he would have to deal with schoolchildren and homework, which were somehow more challenging obstacles than guns and spells.

 **A/N: Sorry for not updating in, what, 2 months? I accidentally deleted everything I had concerning this, including the chapter I wrote, which, needless to say, demotivated me.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Harry glanced at the hat on the desk. "The Sorting Hat, I presume?"

"Of course," Dumbledore said. "The first-years were Sorted upon their arrival, so you would be on your own if you were to be Sorted in front of the school. I feel as though it is easier to simply do this in private."

Harry nodded. "I just put it on, have a conversation with it, it reads my thoughts, and it tells me what house I'm in?"

"Yes." At Harry's look of hesitance, he continued, "Do not worry—the hat cannot disclose what it sees."

After a moment of hesitance, Harry reached forward, picked up the hat, and put it on his head. The world became black as its brim went over his eyes, and Harry was alone.

"Greetings, Sorting Hat."

For a moment, all was silent. And then a voice said, "Hello…Harry Potter." It sounded almost hesitant. "Interesting. _Very_ interesting."

"What's so interesting?"

The Hat chuckled. "I cannot disclose what I see, remember?"

"You can't tell about _my own_ thoughts?"

"Just because they are in your head does not mean that they are your own."

"What?"

"Never mind. On to the sorting." Before Harry could interrupt, the hat continued, "Not at all loyal, though good at pretending to be if it gets you what you want. And bravery…well, you'll almost only enter a fight if you're sure you'll win or you're going to die if you don't. You're very perceptive of your surroundings, intelligent and dedicated in your pursuit of knowledge, but not for knowledge's sake."

"I suppose I'm a Slytherin, then?"

"Oh yes. Cunning as Salazar himself if you set your mind to things—just as ruthless, too. And ambition…perhaps slightly lacking in that area, but if you want something, you will get it."

"And I don't suppose that I can change your mind?"

The Hat barked out a laugh. "There's the cunning again! Wanting to change house so you don't look as suspicious! No true Slytherin allows themselves to be in Slytherin, eh? Nonetheless, Slytherin!"

Instead of going directly into Harry's mind like the Hat's other words had, the last word actually registered upon his ears.

"Hat?" Harry got no response. Biting back a curse, he pulled the Sorting Hat from his head.

Dumbledore smiled at him. "Slytherin. I did not expect anything else."

"Would you have said that no matter which house I was placed in?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps, but that is beside the point."

For a few moments, Harry contemplated asking Dumbledore what the Hat might've meant concerning everything in his head not being his own. He immediately dismissed the idea—he wasn't about to let Dumbledore invade his mind to see what was going on. He had a good idea what it was to do with, anyway, and didn't want Dumbledore involved.

"I will have your bags moved to the Slytherin dormitories," Dumbledore said. "The password is _argentum_ , at the moment."

With a resigned nod, Harry stood, already planning on how he would ensure that no Slytherin would even attempt to mess with him after the first day.

"And, Harry," Dumbledore said, " _please_ don't injure anyone too badly."

"No promises." Harry continued out of the room.

He already knew where the Slytherin dormitories were, and where all the other dormitories were, for that matter. Even with most of his time at Hogwarts having been occupied by studying, he had still made sure that he had designated some time to discovering where everything—mainly routes of escape—was within the castle.

In accordance with the stereotype that Slytherins were evil, their common room was in the dungeons. Then again, the Hufflepuff common room was also in the dungeon, and they were stereotyped to be just about the polar opposite of evil.

Harry was quite frankly unaware of how the Slytherins would react to his presence. He had killed Voldemort, but none of them would be old enough to remember Voldemort, let alone to be his follower for any reason other than what they had heard about him from their parents.

Along with studying magic itself, Harry had also been sure to look into pure-blood culture and had summarised that it wouldn't be too hard for him to blend in—well, it wouldn't have been if he were not the Boy-Who-Lived.

Much of pure-blood culture seemed to consist of a disdain or hatred for Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. That would be easy enough to fake. Along with English, the most commonly spoken languages among English pure-bloods were French, German, and Latin. Harry spoke fluent German, good French, and knew quite a bit of Latin.

Then there were the balls and galas and so on; fortunately, they did not seem to be too different to those that had been common in Muggle high society over the course of history, and Harry was confident that he could use the correct etiquette.

Ultimately, Harry decided that he had two choices, with neither being an obviously better option.

His first idea was to remain mysterious, to hide his talents and not attempt to mingle or become friends or allies with any Slytherins. They would be immediately thrown off guard by the fact that he, who was supposed to be a conqueror of Dark wizards, had been sorted into Slytherin. They would be wary, either fearing that he was a spy or was another Dark wizard himself.

If they were unaware of his abilities and feared him, they would be unlikely to attack him. If they did choose to attack him or test him, however, he would have to resort to his second idea: he would prove himself to be physically and magically competent, and ruthless.

After that, he could see if being friendly and making allies would work. It would not at the beginning, with them knowing nothing about him except that he did not fit in and was a target. It might after he had gained fear and respect, with his threats actually holding some weight.

Of course, his plan would not work at all if they were able to defeat him in a fight or all decided to gang up on him as soon as he arrived. Because of this, Harry made sure to diverge from his path to pick up one of the pistols he had stashed around the castle and a few knives. He didn't think that it would be too much of a problem to kill a few teenagers who had never seen a gun, if need be. The trick would simply be to not be around to many of them at the same time.

Due to the fact it was after curfew, Harry encountered no one on his way through the corridors, and, a few minutes later, Harry was standing before the piece of wall which he knew would recede were he to say the password. He questioned whether he really needed to go inside, or if it would be better to simply hide somewhere in the castle for the night.

He knew that he did—for all he knew, the Slytherins had already been alerted to his presence and were expecting him. If he was not there when morning came, they would think him a coward. Dumbledore might've also placed a few spells to see if he came into the room.

His heartbeat was rapid; he chided himself for it. He had been in many more dangerous situations than this.

Taking in a deep breath, he said, "Argentum."

With the sound of grinding stone, the wall slid aside to reveal a stone passage, the end lit up by an eerie, green light. Giving himself no time to hesitate, he moved forward, his hands at his sides.

No one paid any attention to him as they came in. It was partially due to the fact that the room was lit by dull, green lamps, but mainly because they all seemed to be too engrossed in work, reading, or conversing in the small groups of students who littered the room, lounging on the leather furniture.

A set of stairs stretched upwards on either side of the room, each leading up to respective balconies which overlooked the room and had a door on. From the fact that a girl was going up the stairs on the right, Harry immediately perceived that it was the girls' dormitory.

Keeping his head down, he headed up the stairs on the left—if at all possible, he wanted to avoid confronting so many of the Slytherins at the same time. The best case scenario would be making sure that he went unseen until breakfast the next day, where he could not be attacked and when he wouldn't have to return to the common room for the whole day, as to allow people's tempers to simmer.

He would, however, need to leave marks of his presence, so that they knew he hadn't run off.

Harry moved through the door and was confronted by eight others, one to the left which he perceived to be a bathroom and seven in front of him, one for each year, or so he guessed. He would be in the fifth—the fifth from the left or the fifth from the right, he did not know.

Whichever one he went into, there would undoubtedly be people awake in there—it was only half past ten. And whilst Harry did not fear five teenagers, unless he intended to hold them all captive, they could very well go and tell others he was here.

Behind him, the door began to open. Immediately, he turned to his left, bringing up a hand as though he was brushing through his hair to conceal his scar and face. His heartbeat raced once more.

The student passed onwards without sparing a glance at Harry. He moved into the second door from the right, and most certainly didn't look like a second-year.

Even knowing what room he was in, Harry planned not to go in. He knew he was likely being paranoid, but it wasn't exactly paranoia if there was a very tangible chance that he was about to enter a room with a few people who would like to kill him in his sleep.

Harry resigned himself to the infallible technique of hiding in the bathroom. Moving over to the door he slipped inside. Off to his left were some shower stalls—one of which was running—and what appeared to be a large bath. On the right were some sink and toilet cubicles.

He glanced up and down the room, noting that the walls were tiled. He moved down the line of toilet cubicles, and only one of them was locked. He entered the one next to the wall and began to quietly knock around the outer walls. The back wall appeared to be hollow. After quietly unlocking the door and placing a silencing charm, Harry muttered a spell and blew a hole in the wall.

One the other side was a tangle of pipes. Starting to regret the fact that he had even entered the common room in the first place, Harry incinerated some of the stone above the pipes and moved into the gap, repairing the wall behind him.

Years with Hydra training had gifted Harry with the ability to sleep in basically anywhere, including the middle of the desert with gunfire roaring a few hundred metres away. Compared to that, the space he had carved himself and the shoddily transfigured mattress were both quite nice.

At two in the morning, his watch beeped and awoke him. A minute later, he was quietly slipping through the door of the room for fifth years.

Six beds were in the room, one with Harry's bag on, the rest with students in. Harry froze when he saw when one of them was sitting up, reading a book. He was dark-skinned and probably lanky when standing up.

He glanced at Harry as he entered the room. "So you're the new student." He stood up and moved over to Harry, extending his hand. "I'm Blaise Zabini."

For a moment, Harry contemplated faking an accent, pretending to a foreign exchange student, and giving a fake name. He dismissed the idea near immediately—even if Blaise didn't see his scar, he would still discover the lie tomorrow.

He shook the offered hand. "I'm Harry Potter."

Blaise's eyes immediately flickered upwards. His facial expression did not change. For a few seconds he was silent. "Harry Potter turning up in Hogwarts for his fifth year, and being Sorted into Slytherin. Quite the story, eh?"

"Perhaps I'll tell you about it in the morning, Blaise." He smiled. "For now, however, I quite feel as though I need some sleep." He moved over to his bed and turned back to Blaise. "I'd appreciate if you didn't tell anyone who I am—I enjoy seeing people's surprise when I tell them."

After a moment of consideration, Blaise smiled and nodded. "Of course."


End file.
